The headlights of the car behind frame them in their
little hangman game, a combined stickman with her
fingers through his and his arms pulled out away from
her breasts: they're fighting all over the backseat of the
car. He pulls the hair out of her mouth with his tongue.

It is so dark that the music echoes out of his eyes, Pacific
Oceans where his whole existence resides; she holds only
the seconds he has wasted on convincing her of –
their noses press against each other in the darkness, and
she scratches her name onto his chest, too shallow to keep
his girlfriend away, but enough of a sting for their present
cliff-dive tango.

The sides of her tongue are bitter with his sweat. He holds her
down as a last resort, the girl narrower than his lap, and exhausted
enough to lay her head on his shoulder.

Gravity opens its first tub of popcorn.