One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #2:

I am sipping my latte, cold as ice, warm as night. I am thinking about her, leaning in towards the center of the table, silent and wishing for love in all the same breathes. I am speechless at my own inability. She was cold before they picked her up; her earrings were 50 ft. apart.

The crunchy little bits of flashers and turn signals left on the side of the road by accidentsandwhatever have always fascinated me. Now I know where they come from. Turning too quickly, I nearly snap my neck, spinning my head 360. The jingle at the door is anonymous, but she always had a way of pushing that created a distinctive ring; why is this the same?

I don't believe anything anymore, but I am not exempt from the beliefs of others. Police reports, official statements, consoling words to family members, they all believe these things are necessary.

"Yes, I loved her very much." I say with the vacancy of a desert hotel.

"She was a spark in a dark world." I stare at a distant wall, unseeing, no expression in my voice.

"Of course, I will miss her dearly." My mouth barely moves. The words are flatline, monotone.

I sip my latte. Think.