"That's ironic."

Is the first thing to hit my ears when I stir tiredly. I'm sleepy, not even somewhat awake when she prods at my shoulder. I can't help but think, do you always look beautiful in the morning? That is followed quickly by My Reeses-Cup ice cream is melting. We're going to have problems if you don't prevent that.

I hear something whispering faintly against the car-seats. The top to the convertible is up, and I don't know how long I've been asleep for.

Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner…sometimes I feel like my only friend is the city I live in, the city of angels, lonely as I am…together we cry…

My iPod (see: fate-device) seems to have found its way on. Anthony Kiedis tells me more about life than I'd like to know. The Red Hot Chili Peppers remind me that, in the end, it all comes down to nothing. And, in the great, big, vast universe, we've got no one but ourselves and the world we live in.

Thanks a lot, suicidal tendencies. Mucho gracias, Red Hot Chili Peppers.

"You have an interesting tattoo. Well, when traced back to your actual personality, I find it ironically intriguing, anyway."

I make a grunt of a sound and mumble out that the tattoo was the product of a drunken evening at age nineteen. Celebrating my birthday, we had a little bit too much stupor-ridden fun. In the midst of our inebriated hazes, we'd gone to the local ink-joint and gotten a bunch of matching tattoos. The five of us, we all have different ones.

Mine rests in a barely visible spot just at the left side of my neck, below my ear (impossible to see unless I move my hair or you seriously look) like a small blotch. It is the Japanese kanji for 'fighter'. I explain that one of my pals has 'wisdom', another has 'strong', my second ex has 'soldier' and the last has 'go'. The tattoo that reads 'go' was a stupid fluke. Drunk flukes like that are the reason I hardly drink anymore.

None of it makes sense when I speak it out loud. It's just a tumble of words that end in my passive grunt of, "Yeah."

"Why a kanji?"

"Drunk." I reiterate strongly, like expecting her to pay more attention.

I can smell the Christmas cookie ice cream melting.

"Groceries." I grumble. I sound like the troll underneath the bridge in those merry children's books.

Under the bridge downtown is where I drew some blood…under the bridge downtown, I could not get enough…under the bridge downtown, forgot about my love…under the bridge downtown, I gave my life away…

"If I detach, will you panic, or are you calm enough to allow it?"

Again, I just respond with a half-growl. "Groceries."

Beep.

My cell phone clicks and, when I fish it out of my pocket, the little envelope thing flies into the screen and the words 'Mistah J' pop in there. Without thinking, I press the center button and open the message, but the only contents of it seem to be 'NDKMDASM;dfma;f;LFMAHARVEYMDFSF;AA;' and I can't make heads or tails of why they exist at all in the first place.

I drop the phone between the cushions and (reluctantly, so reluctantly) slip away from the warmth of her body. My eyes close, the car door opens, shuts. Another opens, shuts and the gentle rev of the motor begins to push me back into peace. The warm seats vibrate beneath me and the car hums to life.

I still want to cry.

But, I am calm.

That's right.

Calm.

Aces, Harvey, everything's aces.

Aces remind me of jokers.

Jokers remind me of monsters.

"I'll drive slowly. I have a feeling you'll be motion sick, otherwise."

I just mumble.

"Groceries."