The years have rolled severally behind us
"Now, there are two kinds of femme fatale. There is the femme fatale in every sense of the word, and there is the femme fatale who is not a femme fatale in every sense of the word" and The Girl In Question breathes a sigh of relief and some aspect of truth into the latter half of that sad salingerian aphorism, which is why I mention it, of course. She turns on the radio. A double-decker bus crashes into us, hypothetically. This is followed closely and somewhat theoretically by the impact from a ten-ton truck as Morrissey implores us to take him out tonight but instead we drive around for a few hours without saying much of anything despite these run-on sentences. It’s too cold tonight to drive with the windows down, so we sit and sweat under polyester pullovers. My knees hurt a little and I’m running my tongue over my gums thinking about teeth and the word plaque and how most plaques are good because they honor things, for instance “On this very spot in eighteensixtysomething Lincoln defender of the Union had his teeth removed by an amateur dental hygienist named Booth hear ye hear ye et cetera et cetera et cetera.” Et cetera. We pull up to her house, TGIQ assures me that “it’s only a matter of time.” In a moment of faux bravado I tell her It’s all a matter of time (just like that, italics and all) and I never see her again.
This is just the beginning of things.