Moving My Tongue To The Back Of His Throat And Hearing His Choke-Reflex Makes Me Think Of Work, Of The Man Staring At The Clearance-Store Vacuum Cleaner In A Very Specific Way.

This used to be an aeronautical design firm. All the tables are on a slant.

"You want me to hold a phonebook up to your face and hit it with a steel cement-support?" he asks.

I move my hair out of the way.

"What do I get out of it?"

"You get to hold a phonebook up to someone's face and hit it with a steel cement-support."

He says he doesn't know. He says he's worried.

He says what good will this do and says how are we going to get out of here and what if something happens and the phonebook explodes, firing newsprint and names of strangers into my mouth, and I don't care, I don't feel it enough, as much I used to.

By the time they get inside, they've got nothing to blame.

We're gone.