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This is me, waiting for her to get off work. It's some time after midnight, but I don't own a watch and I left my phone at home. I don't have anybody else I need to talk to at this time of night.

Bugs circle around the neon awning of the fast food restaurant where she is, I expect, picking up trash in an exercise called "closing" - the manic late night cleaning where the minimum wage people try and get home an hour or so after the place is actually closed .

It is late July, which means it is still over 85, even this late at night. The ground fog that crept in after dark has deepened and spread out here, in the low part of town, wrapping everything in a soft muted light. Think of those fancy portrait photographs you might have seen in expensive magazines. The ones with fuzzy edges, usually created with vaseline on the edge of the lense.

In a little while she will come out, wave a weary hand at shoulder level and walk toward the car. She'll be covered in sweat and the scent of fried fish but I will deny it when she says she smells like crap as she gives me a strong hug while she slides in. She will open the beer I have waiting for her in a cooler in the back and then will take a long pull, leaning her head back against the seat.

'k, she'll say. Let's get outa here.

We will.

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