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He let himself drift again.

He led her out to the driveway with his hands over her eyes.

"You're so cheesy. There's a car out here, isn't there."

"At least I remember our anniversary." He let his hands drop to his sides. She stood where she was and slowly looked from one end of the Ford to the other. He wasn't sure what to make of her silence. "It matches your eyes."

"Oh, really?" She ran her fingers over the edge of the fender, feeling the spider web of lines in the deep blue paint. "My eyes are cracked?"

"Hey, it's got character."

"It's got a rust spot down there."

"You don't like it," he sighed. "I'll take it back."

"No, don't," she giggled and touched his shoulder. "I'm kidding. I do like it... I love it."

"Thank God." He opened the door, "see how it fits."

The worn vinyl squeaked as she slid across the seat. She felt behind the skinny steering wheel. "Where's the key?"

"It's in the dash," he laughed, "not the column."

She found the sliver of metal and twisted it. The Ford growled and shook like a grumpy dog waking from a nap. He leaned in the window. She turned her face up to him, and he noticed how dark her eyelids were. Her cheeks no longer pushed them into a squint, but he smiled back at her.

"Kiss me."

Her lips quivered against his. The Ford stuttered, something under the hood clack-clack-clattered, and the engine rattled to a stop.

A bang and a shout brought him back to the diner. One of the truckers pounded the tarnished chrome of the Seeburg with his ham-sized fist. The needle of the jukebox stumbled into a deep gouge in the worn vinyl, skipping backwards to the beginning of the verse, trying to find its place only to stumble in the same crevice.

The speaker screeched, "I love the way the fire lights up your eyes," over and over as the trucker repeated, "c'mon, you old bitch. C'mon!" The needle finally jumped the scratch, and the bearish man turned his middle finger up at the box before triumphantly reclaiming his throne at the bar. The needle slid along its tiny track, unaware of the turbulence of the immediate past, unaware of its future, existing only in its own infinitesimal present, winding its way inward.

Moonlight glinted at the tear clinging to her chin. They huddled in the damp grass of their back yard blanketed in an insect litany.

"I'm scared." Her voice rasped over the vowels.

"It's O.K. to be. But it's probably just bronchitis. Doctors have to be cautious." He squeezed her thigh. "You know, diagnose an ingrown toenail as gangrene and then look like a miracle worker when she saves your leg from being amputated."

She gave a feeble laugh that broke into long, grating coughs, and he held her shoulders helplessly. When the fit subsided, her eyes focused on him.

"I'm afraid of not being with you."

He sealed her in his arms and she pressed her face into his chest. "Nothing can take you away from me."

The waitress appeared again without warning and deposited a Coke in front of him. The ice settled with a ping, and condensation cascaded down the sides of the glass. He noticed a threatening crack in the plate she slapped in front of the Coke. The eggs rocked from side to side attempting to comfort one another as the toast peered reticently over the edge of the plate. With respectful silence she slid the check into the puddle around the Coke and disappeared once more.