By degrees, the night swallowed us, leaving her luxury SUV to grope its way to civilization. Her relatives didn’t live far, but in the rural midwest it doesn’t take much to transport you to the edge of the world.
“I need a drink,” I said, taking her hand. “Let’s never do that again. Until next year of course.” I glanced at her profile.
She was crying inaudibly, eyes focused on the crisp white beams of light projecting from the front of her Volvo.
“You need a drink, too,” I said gently.
When the city emerged later, we were dismayed to find nothing but empty streets and solemn lampposts.
Still we drove, desperate for an alcoholic reprieve from our holiday traumas. We settled on a kitschy hotel on the border of the bad part of town. In the bar was a handful of middle-class refugees like us. The bartender, the Death Star tattooed on his forearm, looked inexplicably tragic in his vest and bowtie.
I ordered our drinks and followed her to the end of the bar. Less than ten minutes later I ordered two more drinks. This was a blatant attempt at escape. She put her head on my shoulder.