The engine ticks and cools. The windows gauze with breath. At last, around us both a rueful silence swells. We seem like lovers here. Not quite. We share a thing for itching and for scratching. Say more and go too far. It’s not just our shit luck this trifling costs so dearly. To many penny cherries make any stomach sick. You think I’m weakening; I’m sure that it won’t fit. If both of us are right then one of us is wrong.