He is jumping on beds in the pines with a girl who never thinks the word “complicated.” Back home, she tries to mine Andy Warhol’s mysticism from a bag of Ramen noodles and drinks past closing time with the international art set, who don’t seem to remember that bars even have closing times or that countries have drinking ages anymore. I dare you to find the tragedy in it. They both forget they have parents instead of anecdotes. She goes to the suburbs to find a Dennys, accepts a ride from strangers and lets a boy that she does not know fall in love with her. These things happen, she tells them, and they do. No matter the breakage, no matter the distance. She will get home by the time the shift starts, will sleep the way the dockworkers do but with a certain sense of tension found only in wolves that have been brought through evolution to sleep with their eyes open and their jaws permanently snapping when they dream.
In the morning, she writes a sentence in a letter that sounds like “that’s what this city will do to you” and then erases it. He practices religion and learns how to love in groups these days, groups that sit in circles and play games based on faith, has no intention of returning home anything less than a guru in something.
You have to wonder what their mothers think they’re doing, what the children sleeping in their hips think. If it were pretty, you wouldn’t have to romanticize it, she tells a man she wants to love. It has a lot to do with God and maybe meditation could help her. She decides on a Sunday that sleep is what she needs, and spends her waking hours stirfrying with bourbon, thinks about the best way to get her floors clean.