We're driving down Whittle and I'm down to my last. There's an Ethiopian café to the left of us and opposite is an Italian restaurant. The street lights are glowing that sickly yellow on the ground like they had one too many an hour ago and the headlights pierce only a couple of feet ahead. She's asking me why I can't be myself around our friends. I say that maybe the guy I left back there was me, that this one here's the fake. She yells ugly things. I take one last, long puff and she falls slowly back into her wherever. I lick my lips. They still taste like salt. Down South we go.

We're at the lights now. Red and there's a yellow Ferrari wannabe in front of us. She passes off the keys to me. The lights go yellow. We go.

We're at the garage door. I get out and the light flickers on and bleeds orange light over us. I flip through the keychain. Too long. Too short. Too wide. Too thin... I find the right one, fit it into the lock. Other way. I twist it around. Fit it again. There we go.

I'm in the shower. She's in bed. I wash every trace of tonight off me. First the dirt and the glass and the make up, and then the skin that didn't have the decency or the balls to peel away when it should have. I begin to soak to the core. I let out everything that I ate and drank. I can still make out little piece of capsicum.It's red and brown. I let it all wash down the drain. The water makes its way into every hole in me. I wrinkle and fill until nothing else fits. I twist the knobs off and even the water leaves me. I step out. Tomorrow will be different. I go.