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.