She smiles with her teeth instead of her lips, like she's keeping them bared in preemptive self-defense. You talk and she listens and she talks and you listen and she steals glances like a jewel thief, an eye contact cat burglar scaling your walls and finding precious things of which you weren't previously aware.
Blue shoots from profoundly symmetrical eyes and they're so clear that you think you can see the gears of her brain turning to the rhythm of her words, which stumble from between pearled rows and land in your burning ears.
You're more around her, you realize, and you're disappointed that there isn't a thing in the world that doesn't end.
You drive on, your own eyes on the moon. That's the prize. Things that wane generally wax, you remind yourself. Just wait. And it'll come.
But it's so hard to drive when you're sitting on your hands.