"What is this?" I asked. The streetlight above us flickered out. I looked around and saw all the symbols of everything that went wrong: a dog half asleep, lights on but shades drawn, unlocatable dance music, clothes soaking wet, cars slowly passing, eyes stinging and hands struggling for warmth. We avoided eyes, knowing what we had spent years forgetting: we forgot that nothing mattered. Some time ago we had slipped into caring, defaulted to tenderness. Looking around, we realized our arbitrary passions, the years of transforming mistakes into intentions. Our hands frozen together against their wills. "I guess this is sleet," he said, and wrong all over again.
bettietwoguns:
you are a tease with your no picture and vague quotations . . . where do you go, and what do you do . . . give me a hint. do i know you?