Like on a map, all the places they have been, had been, San Bernardino, Buffalo, Houston. A map with routes traced in yellow highlighter. A map rock jagged, pictures of mountains and gas icons, the places they stopped to eat. She reads a pamphlet in a waiting room. She reads a business card from a man’s hand. She reads an envelope addressed to her with a bill inside it for all the light she uses, late at night, to read. He holds his hands to the sides of his face, to the glass of a window, sees inside but it is not her, she is up a story, two stories, nine stories, she is at the top, near the top, taller than he is. He sees a woman eating dinner with a man. He sees a kid in a seat, his face a mess of ketchup, mustard. He sees a tv on, lulling out news-anchor blurbs, game show murmurs, cartoon antics. He sees a couch and a chair, lamps turning on. He sees a family sitting down eating dinner. He does not see her. This is a paper him. Don’t you see me here? Don’t you see how this is going? She has tattoos of butterfly and turtle, a sunflower opening on her ribs, bloom of tree on her back. She puts her head through a turtleneck; today is chilled. She puts her lips on a glass full of milk. She puts a fork into a slice of pie. She puts her hands into her hands, around a mug. There is a ringing in his ears and he writes: There is a ringing in my ears. And he wants to ask her if she hears it, if she is the one making that sound, if it is the white noise of
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