“You know,” she said, curling up in the passenger seat and pressing her cheek against its red leather, “I had this dream last night. You were made of pizza and I ate you.”
She reached across the console and rested her hand on mine, concernedly.
She continued: “It was awful. I felt like calling you, but I knew you were sleeping.”
Bullshit, I thought. She hadn’t called me in months. She only agreed to go out with me tonight because I told her – to my karma’s horror – that I was dying. We drank too much wine, and, in her drunken state, she decided that her dream portended my demise. Then she asked if I thought she had gotten fat.
In our months apart she got a new boyfriend and I got a new car. I stuffed her in the passenger seat and drove her home.
My car idling in her driveway, its headlights glaring at the back of an unfamiliar vehicle, she refused to remove her hand. Her house was dark.
“If K is so great,” I huffed, “where is he tonight?”
She sighed, said nothing. Then she moved to kiss me but sank her teeth into my face instead.