his girl sleeps.  the drive-in has been closed a year.  they thought, last night, they could pretend.  if there are seven days in a week, if it can be proven, then she is happy for three.  it’s his job to space them out.  you would probably believe me if I mentioned a car accident, a third friend, a former lover.  but I arrived only to meet you.  minutes from now a white dog will drink from a bucket of red paint.  the girl will shift in the passenger seat and tug the skirt of minnie mouse past my idea.  the driver will start the pick-up with a fork I mistakenly told you, in a letter, was a crucifix.  in many places, for that, I remain sorry.