I watch her think about the way she thinks about the way these things go. I can see her ticker tape flicker in the bar lights and the notes on her insides of her arms. She thinks it’s special, and I don’t know whether or not that’s a quality in her that runs out, but I hope I’m not around long enough to find out. There’s a lot that doesn’t get said and I think everyone’s okay with that these days because we fill in the spaces with long drives and late mornings. There’s no good way to get along with anyone but I see everyone else doing it- so why can’t we? I try not to imagine the legs of my last lover wrapped tightly around my waist but something about her is the same about her and I sometimes forget who I am really with. She speaks about getting there and I speak about leaving mostly, and even on the good days it gets to feeling doomed. No one minds much though. We sit hunched shoulders and tell stories about people we don’t know and drink weak black coffee pretending, or at least I am, that there isn’t an entire world happening out there. The jukebox in the corner takes cues from some sort of grand puppeteer and we both get to feeling like we’re living in some short story.