I am the one who waits. I am undignified, callous, careless. I am less than the sum of your hurried composition of what it is like to love. But on our way home, out and nowhere, pretend strangers, an unfamiliar song plays on the radio and there’s nothing left to do but try to catch each word and mouth them five miliseconds late, heads bob, fingers tapping nervously shifting from side to side, making oneself comfortable. Everything is too easy and too difficult and I stop myself right here.