He flicked the ash out of the car window,
and she knew that was the signal for her to continue.
He thought he was good at pretending to listen, but she knew.
When he did those long exhales he was thinking about something else,
probably the zombie in his dream last night,
the one distilled from the mirror that devoured him in slow motion, record time.
But she had sat on the floor, taking notes on her typewriter,
writing him back into existence.
God, how he loved her.