On the interstate, heading west into the horizon, the sky is turning from blue to black with rust colored edges. Flat lanes interupted only by generic green signs and passing red lights- here-then up ahead- then gone.

The red lights start to light up brighter and the cars in front start to dance in and out of their lanes. Large chunks of dead rubber are scattered across both lanes. Torn up truck tires force the cars to move out of their ruts, briefly. There are no trucks for miles and no evidence save these pieces. In the morning, they'll be gone (hit accidently and set sailing into the medium or off to the shoulder). First the truck, then the tires, then nothing will be left. Road kill lasts longer I bet.

When I get back to my apartment there will be plenty of evidence. Opened cereal I won't eat. Scraps of wrapping paper I won't use. Small clothing items under chairs and behind the dryer. It'll be months before it will be Rachel-free. Bits of her will remain. Some shirts, borrowed, will smell of her perfume. Magazines she bought will fall out of the rack, but I won't be surprised.

I've driven down this road before and I know what to expect:
drive defensively, look out for the other guy.