Twisters

He saw the proof of her hatred everywhere; broken flowers in an unending field of bile. This was the air he breathed. Explaining his asthma.

We get in the car. Buckle up, I say. We’re in Nevada, she says. And I shrug, and drive toward the horizon, or a cliff, whatever comes first.

I asked if I could buy her a drink. She asked my name and I told her. She took out her phone and Googled me. You can’t talk to me, she said.

He suffered a breakdown at work. He filled his swimming pool with paper. And alerted the media. Don’t fish me out, he said before diving in.

He looks at his watch. It’s time, he says. I look around. Do I know you? I ask. He picks up his briefcase and walks toward me. And he swings.

I wanted to tell her that hate was a strong word and she recounted what had happened and I let out a laugh and that didn’t go over too well.

I kissed her. She said, You taste like desperation. That felt unfair, and I said so. And she said, Despair then. And that was more accurate.