The marching sequence of the tall street lamps looked awkward. Unrehearsed and unrequited. They did not return the awkward glances…just balanced on the curbs and corners as Anna and I flew by. She was speeding because she was talking to herself. “Fuck…we can’t just wash one another. I like to wash my own damn hands dad.” Weird, odd, eccentric things I didn’t quite understand or could even begin to want to fathom a inclination to care…about what they meant. I didn’t. She kept speaking. “Fear is the heart of love, I don’t believe in fear but I do get scared of being beaten up with a ruler a mile long. Its haunting me. I see.” “Anna, stop. Stop now, Anna. Fucking stop, Anna.” “J, what is the best way to make a right without making a right here?” “Cutting into this parking lot and going out the other entrance. Why?” “The party is at the end of the street over there.” She pointed right and at a crusty department store left-over from the ‘80s…which I imagine she wanted me to place out of my mind because the party was past that and right. We were in a rural setting now. In New York, how strange. No real houses or building. Just sludge and gray matter. Buildings just blurring together in my vision. She did what I had instructed her to do and we pulled out into the street. I saw the end destination now. A huge mansion of a home. But clearly a factory re-imagined as a playboy substitute. It entranced us in, the car too. It sputtered too a stop just feet away from a driveway. -Chris