Tonight we’re fighting so I squeeze out every drop from every bottle of soap while I shower. Bright pinks and blues run together in a river between my feet. Glue at the drain. Bubbles lick my heels in frothy swells.

“American Idiot” shakes the wood paneling in the hall and out of the shower, alone in my towel, bass rings up between my toes and knees and hips, rattling my bones. I follow bra, shirt, then pants to the bedroom. Lipstick open on the desk, coral matte, it’s not really either of our colors.

In Sonic parking lots we drink slushies and eat tater tots. Blue tongues in a knot, locking us over the center console. Straws from our drinks poke into our stomachs. Out of the car to go to the bathroom, brights on, blinding light against my back to cross the empty parking lot.

Sneaking, I cross dams for you. Bare feet on the concrete slabs, wet from the water rushing over and between them, cold as ice in the dark night. Bats fly startlingly low, slapping between the weeping willows. Drowsy trees.

I wish we’d had better fights. Or at least a better last fight? Something louder with slamming back doors, shoving clothes into the trunk of my car, throwing the mix tape CD at your face and yelling, “I never liked The Postal Service anyway!”