There was running. And then, as quickly as she realized it, a movement under the sheets and a shift in light through the curtains. A change in scenery: the dark, mossy woods transform into a spinning ceiling fan above. Outside, there's the sound of a car starting. She pulls the blankets in tight, closes her eyes, and tries to go. Back.

The escalator to the top grinds away. Standing to the right, you hold the railing and the belt moves faster than your feet. Adjust, so that you don't grab the ass of the person leaning to the side ahead of you. You're halfway there. Reach into your back pocket to get your fare card and hit your funny bone. Ow. Turn to see someone dragging up an extra large Samsonite, knuckles white with a straining grip. At the top, a blowing fan and a gaggle of station managers. The turnstile opens and your day begins.

Take a walk in the sideways rain over skywalks with iron railings; the smell of a Chinese restaurant hits as it wafts from the next block. A child's plastic tricycle leans against a dilapidated playhouse-- the AstroTurf-covered deck is three storeys above a gas station. There's a screech of brakes, a crash, and the homeless from the park nearby walk close to see, their tattered blankets drag on the ground as they watch the crushed Benz cause distractions.

Brake lights fade away, blinking into the distance; the black asphalt blends with the dark night sky at the crest of the hill. Walking down the tree-lined street, the shadows of this suburban life creep from the bushes; a maintained and edged lawn, a tire swing. A cat hops up to the front stoop and immediately whips around to groom itself under the harsh porch light. It’s Trash Day in the morning and the big, awkward bins are carefully placed. Close, but not too close, so the Beamers don’t get scratched on their way from driveway to window office.

It was a consolation-- our Plan-B. Not what we had in mind, the show went on: laughing and the clinking sound of another round. Questions of how we even got here, another round, and a threat to stop serving. A burst of laughter and one horrified look. Hiccups and another round. The night ends and we wake up the next morning wondering how a drawing of a unicorn ejaculating rainbows got into our day-planner.

Hopeless and helpless songs play over crackling speakers and take us back to a time when we thought the only place to be was in love. We remember the happy: silly string and smiles and five-dollar bets. The subject changes, and we stare at desolate mountains and scrub trees, silently trying to grasp at the strings of our then-15 year-old lives. Some things will never change, other things have already happened. The car feels claustrophobic as twilight hits the desert.