Samuel spends the first part of the evening punching images of himself, holed up in his room, first the rubber head that will never stay down, then the photos and photocopies, then the coloring book. And, finally, he will yawn, and glance at his watch, and go into the bathroom and spend two hours combing his hair and applying various creams to his face.

Meanwhile, his girlfriend Rebecca is waiting for him anxiously, because he occasionally arrives on time, sometimes early, and sometimes late, and she never knows when exactly to be ready, and this gets to her, and when he finally comes he will invariably have knocked twice before she can answer the door, and nothing gets to her more than keeping people waiting. She wonders why she goes to such trouble, why she bothers getting dressed up so, because he never makes an effort, and she feels so dirty afterwards no matter what they do. But she likes his company, because he is a sponge that absorbs all the shit, and he will make her laugh at least once, maybe twice.

When he's knocked twice at her door, they go out on the porch and kiss a little, then he will escort her to his shitty little Ford, pretending like he's a gentlemen, and he will hold the door open for her, and she will sweep her feet in quickly, afraid of her dress getting caught when he closes. Then they will drive around, casually, leisurely.

They don't talk now, because there are things that are incommunicable, and the wheels keep clicking in time with the radio, and the night seems possible. Rebecca will lean up against the window, away from Samuel, thinking about how she'd like to open the window, and lean out of herself, but she worries about her hair, and the warmth they've created in the car seems too personal and too comforting. Samuel will tap his fingers, and tap his toes, and steal glances at Rebecca and think what a lucky lucky lucky bastard he is, and wonder what she thinks about leaning against the window so casual, and imagine what it would be like to keep driving along like this on and on, as if they've only got to keep moving down street after street to avoid the sun.

Instead, they wind up where they always wind up, late at night, at a lonely cafe the shape of a dragon's heart, and they are disappointed when the car stops moving because there is a sadness in endings. And they get out, push through the doors of the cafe, and take their usual seat in the corner without looking at the waitresses because at one time or another Samuel has dated both of them, though this was long ago, and it is understood that Samuel would rather go up to the counter and order from the guy behind it and pick the food up from him directly. This is always a mistake; it breaks the rhythm of their evening, and the waitresses never gave a damn about Samuel in the first place, and Samuel always feels like a shit leaving Rebecca even for a moment, because he also hates keeping people waiting, even though, when he gets back to the table, there will sometimes be nothing to say to her.

Nevertheless, he gets up, and he orders, and the waitresses push past him like he's not there, and Rebecca stares at Samuel, then out the window, thinking all the time that out of all the places in the world she could have ended up with, she ended up here, and maybe that's an awful thing, a great pity, and maybe you've just got to go with whatever happens, and maybe it's fate. But then there's Samuel at the counter, and occasionally he steals glances back at her, and it is something to be wanted, even if there's always a fragility, even if you know you won't always be wanted like that. And when he gets back he will smile, and she'll smile, and he'll say something amusing perhaps, or they'll share the quiet like a married couple, but perhaps out of all the things in the world, this isn't so bad at all.

Sometimes they'll overhear the funniest conversations, and maybe they'll get up and dance, if Rebecca is in the right mood, and sometimes Samuel's friends will drop in, because they know they'll find Samuel here, but Samuel doesn't like them so much, especially when he's with Rebecca, and they seem so everyday and crude while the other people that come in and out of this cafe seem like the most mysterious people in the world, like they've been across all the towns and down all the streets and have lived for years without the sun. And when Rebecca looks at them, she thinks maybe there is something real that they leave for her, like a look, perhaps, or a scent, or dirt, or some sort of trace when they've got up and the doors have closed behind them. She looks at the waitresses then, and wonders if that's why they stay here, month after month, because they are in love with the traces of strangers, or whether maybe that's why she comes here, with Samuel, night after night.

Samuel sips his coffee, or bites a french fry, and he stares at Rebecca and through her, and his need of her is like a dirty secret that makes him feel like a coward, or ugly. He talks to her, tries to engage her, and their conversation slips into the familiar comforting games and patterns, as if they were made for each other. He sometimes will touch her, gently place his hand on hers, or he will play familiar roles, attempt to feed her fries perhaps, and she will invariably laugh with delight.

When they're done eating, Samuel will have left a little at the bottom of his cup of chips, or, if he's ordered a plate, he will place his knife and fork together neatly, and there will be a small pile of food that he doesn't finish, and in a pathetic way this makes him feel a little better, because he hates wasting food and it's a tiny grandiosity, and it will make the evening seem less a waste, because it's another ragged edge, and things won't be so clean cut.

They will rise and leave a five buck tip on the table, and pass the waitresses who don't bother looking at them, and go out the doors.