Stand in line. Wait to buy our tickets. To get our maps, I think. Break talks to a boy. Someone he met at another party from the bits I hear.

I am not here but still with her. Back in Ohio by now.

Dissect things. Everything. Everything she ever said to me. Did in my presence. Every look. Every gesture. To glean meaning. To make it make sense. Make her make sense. I run my fingers over the Indian on my cap. How did I get here? I pull myself out of it. I have to. Save it for tomorrow. There’s plenty of time tomorrow. I look out the window. Get caught up watching a small group dance on the sidewalk. In a circle and smiling. A chill travels down my spine and I shake it off.

The line moves forward. Just an inch. Some kids pay with hundreds, some with wadded ones and fives and a ten here and there. Snakesnakesnake. Up to the counter, we hand over our money. Plastic cards serve as tickets. And the map. Not a map, really, but typewritten directions on a tiny strip of paper.

Santa Monica Boulevard.

We travel east, past the cars inching their way into WeHo. We light cigarettes. Begin the real work.

“We’re looking for Orange.”

OrangeOrangeOrange.

“There it is.”

He turns right onto the darkened street. The sidewalk dim, a street lamp flickers on and off as kids walk from…