We bump tables, upset drinks into faces. Her eyeballs have disappeared somewhere up into her forehead. I lead her out through the yawning doors, heels dragging, wearing out like a pencil eraser. I park in the intersection of eighth and 49th. I drop of Delilah.
Traffic backs up.
I lean her against a lamppost, serenaded by the sealion chorus of horns. Anyone can paralyze a city this way. I put my tub in drive and challenge the honking backed up traffic like a bull in the arena. Workers on their way. But they're all bereft of purpose, wired to go nowhere.