Did she say something?  Did I say something?   Her brow illuminates under the streetlights and pulses with the beat of the windshield wipers. She won’t look at me: her eyes flash sequins at the sidewalk. Droplets floating, floating: translucent globes hanging in space. Then they burst apart.   She shakes her hair and I can no longer see her eyes.   Rain: I yawn through the misty rhythm. My eyes close continuously. Headlights and streetlights mix in the distance and through the murk I wonder when things started to go off course.  We had danced together, squeezing particles of music from our sweatshirts. Then we ate at the Greasy Spoon, where she said it.   The air between us is a stale sponge unable to soak up all these discarded feelings. Damp inside the car and heavy on my eyelids. I try to blink.   The tires below us slime their way through the night.  She sits in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.   What`s the point?  She glances over, a quick reflex of her neck, surprised. I realize I have mumbled my thoughts aloud. Beads of sweat wander across my hairline. I keep my face forward.   She turns away. Again.  I roll down my window an inch. I open my mouth. A few raindrops land on my tongue. …

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