“Want to go to Vegas?” Her eyes wide, ecstatic.

It almost feels like a threat. There's a blade in her hand, but it isn't raised to me. I've got wiggle room.

“How about the Grand Canyon?" Some negotiation. I'm not so far gone.

I'd love to say I was playing Damage Control– Las Vegas would be fun, and as happy as I'd be to be married by noon, it would be difficult to avoid making collateral damage of ourselves– but in the moment I was just giving my opinion.

She's kind, a sweet “okay.” A smile arrives to justify those eyes. She's kind, but knows I wouldn't argue if she were sold on Vegas, nor would I let her go alone.

She puts her shirt back on– my shirt. It was warm, or she needed to be free. Or simply, she didn't want to get blood on it– she knows it's my favorite. The blood is dry now, the walk from the wash, through the neighborhood (we got lost and had to break back onto the street) and to the car is safer fully-clothed, so the shirt is back on.

I've been to neither Vegas nor the Big Hole. Made plans to with my best friend, or another. Nothing beats now. Nothing feels as necessary as Now.

Now we're back in the car, a bit more cactus on us than usual. It would be ridiculous to complain, considering.

​We're drunk. The plan wasn't to drive across the state when we showed up to the wash at midnight with a couple of Four Lokos. We're somewhat responsible too. Waiting gives her the opportunity to get back to her work. Both our shirts come off.

Something about not being able to look away from a burning building. In brief moments I reflect, still drinking since I don't have to drive, a brief thought about what I'm looking at. She laughs, a joke I made a moment ago, though I'm not sure what it was. I look down and decide what I need more of in order to fix the cracks in my brain that everything seems to be slipping through. I push down the greater impulses, not too far gone.

She works. Just keeps going. Line after line, over lines. More than the number of days since we met. I stare and the static climbs and grows at the sides of my skull. My skin screams with envy. Her expert hands. I know she would if I asked. It wouldn't be the first time. I'm in the car with her, in the building. Why shouldn't I be burned? Don’t I deserve it too? Why does she? Why the fuck does she get to and I’m stuck here, bones straining to break free. I want to be torn open so that the colorful tapestry within may be laid bare.

I don’t ask. It’s time to drive. I watch her, in the dark, her body hunched in the seat, a black line almost reaching her elbow. What does she want from me?

​At no moment did I not feel too far from her. Even pressed against her chest, lying on dirt and sand in the dark, the blood kept me hungry for something I have never had.

The car drifts slightly, wearing down the lines on the highway. We could have waited longer. I don’t comment on it. I trust her, though fear lies somewhere underneath the writhing pile of emotions in my mind. Is she testing me?

The sun rises as we descend the mountains, entering the final stretch. With the light, she demonstrates how to perfectly put on a t-shirt while wearing a seatbelt and driving. I do a much worse job of it with much less responsibility

The Grand Canyon was beautiful. I drew it with a punctured ink cartridge, a five-minute walk back to the car to get a pen deemed Excessive. Tourists in every language and fun conversations. We sat, watching calmly, paying no mind to those we left in panic. A welfare check to an empty apartment.

I didn't end up in the psych ward 36 hours after I got home. No new scars. I slept, it had been a while. My girlfriend of about a month was gone. When the text letting me know came, when I had no clue where she was, when they told me I couldn't visit the day after I did so without issue, I told myself she's okay, in between pathetic scratches.