He takes me, a half-conscious shadow, out of the club, into his car.
It's not a Jeep.

We drive into darkness,
Stopping finally under the neon lights of a hotel.
He doesn't open my door,
But goes into the room, expecting me to follow.

I do, picturing you standing there,
And not a stranger with hands too large, no Jeep, and the air of whiskey on his
breath.
It's on mine too.

I close the door behind me.
When he grabs the back of my head,
Kissing me with rough, demanding lips,
A voice in my mind whispers,
"This is how to get over him."

And then I remember soft, gentle lips,
And eyes that devour me silently,
Like I'm a goddess.
A louder voice screams,
"This is wrong! You still love him!"

I tear myself away,
Running like the dog of hell is scratching at my heels.
In a way, he is.

The stanger's footfalls fade with exasperation,
Leaving me to be a teenage girl, in the middle of the desert, with no way home.
I walk toward town,
Begging for the sun to stay dormant for a while longer,
To keep me wrapped in dark.

But light does come, in the form of two headlights.
The car slows, then pulls over across the road.
It's a Jeep.

You step out,
Standing on your side of the highway.
From a distance, in the dark,
I can see dark bags under you eyes,
So familiar to me from my own reflection.

I can see you seeing me,
My shirt crooked,
Hair unkempt,
Lipstick smeared.
Yet your gaze is not snide or calculating,
But adoring.

Maybe you were running away too,
I don't know.
I was trying to escape from loneliness,
Because love is much better when there are two people.