how can I begin; I don't know where we left off. how does a person start stopping...

you were on the corner holding your young wife's left hand. it wouldn't have been right to smile as I drove by. but I caught your eye, slow-motion drive-by. damaged heart parade. she was busy pushing the "walk" signal, convinced it was broken. your eyes moved quickly back and forth as you squinted to remember. I dug my nails into the leather interior.

we had too much coffee. skin was sweaty summer. you were wearing new clothes. I had cut my hair. in the brownish lamplight, we reconstructed the ghost of a shared history and smiling, cringing, unsure, we stared through it at our present selves. still there. I drove home at 100 miles per hour. license plates. new states.

the sound of wine slipping into new, clean glasses comes from the dining room. there's a smell of fresh paint and vacuum motor oil. cheers. "oh, god, congratulations.. a new baby." slick, black appliances stand at the ready in the kitchen. "No, I still rent." the rusty sounds of cicadas creak in through an open window. pictures of smiling faces line the dusty piano top. I don't recognize anyone.