This is not going well, not well at all. But anymore nothing
does. You should probably quit while you`re ahead. Nothing
good will come of this and you know it. Stop it. Stop.
Go home.
You should probably say nighty night and go home.
The inside of the car is as cold as the outside, colder
even. I`m leaning backwards at my sit, and she`s playing
with my belt buckle. her other hand, nails polished Indian
ink black, makes the figure eight on the tip of my nose.
Tell her you need to get up real early in the morning. You
have an appointment to remove a molar. Infected and rotting.
Tell her you`re sick. I`m not feeling well, baby. Head
tumor. Psoriasis of the liver. Pancreatic cancer. A boil to
lance.
Tell her you`re very tired and could use some sack time.
it`s been a rough couple of days down at the office, and you
need to catch up on your sleep. Just say I`m sorry, honey,
but I need to leave now.
Good bye.
Tell her anything.
Go home.
Just go home.
This isn`t about you, she says. We`ll be just playing a
game, reliving a memory.
I`m looking at her nothing-but-rust color hair, burning lava
red in the car`s bright Light Emitting Diodes blinking that
we`re out of gas.
Her head is leaning at one side and her smile twists the
other way, and she just stares at me. I`m sorry babe, no.
No.
Get over yourself you jackass, she laughs. She whisper, get
over yourself and put that fucking gun against my head.
You know the drill.
Don`t pull that trigger until I say so.