She closed down the bar again. He had to go home to his family, leaving her with word tokens for love, exchange them for extra longing at the cashier stand on your way out the door. She knew he forgot every promise the minute he pressed down on the gas pedal, each cylinder under the hood a wife or a child, moving tons of metal with each stroke. She knew how much momentum that car created; she stood in the middle of the street every night.
On the way to the next bar, hammered and one contact fallen out, she contemplated not stopping, diving until a body of water forced all roads north or south. Maybe at least without the constant reminders, this longing that could never be fulfilled would fade.
She woke up from shivering, the morning sun bright through the frosted windows of her Pontiac. She turned the key and lit a cigarette, both completely autonomically, and pulled out of the parking lot. She had to go to work. And she had to see him that night.