And here she waits, plain white T-shirt, hair dyed the color of an oily crow, a pair of jeans with the left knee out and a series of crooked slashes up the right thigh. No boots, just a set of once-white Chuck Taylors, now so stained they're the color of storm clouds.

She feels outclassed. Her mouth goes dry. This isn't like her.

"Shut this shit down," she mumbles to herself as he approaches. "Close it off. Be tough. Don't be a douche. Don't be a coward. Suck it up. We all die."

He gets closer, and she feels small – she is reminded again of his tremendous size, the broad shoulders, the ham-hock hands, the Herman Munster boots. And yet, his face is soft. His eyes cast downward. He's vulnerable. An easy take-down, she thinks but isn't convinced.

"Hey," he says. It's got an aww-shucks vibe to it. He's nervous. That helps her. It's a cruel thing, but she finds herself forever empowered by the weaknesses of others. "You find the place all right?"

"I did," she replies. She drove here in Ashley's Mustang – borrowing his car took some convincing, like she was asking Daddy if she could cavort around town in his Benz.

"It's good to see you."

"You look… clean."

The comment puts him off-balance. She feels mean and awkward.

"I did shower," he says.

"I like that in a man."

"I didn't think you'd call."

She pitches the cigarette. It hits a puddle and sizzles. "Oh yeah?"

"I figured, you were with the–"

"The other guy? Oh, gods, no. That's my brother, Ashley."

Louis looks relieved. Like the wind just caught in his sails. "Your brother?"

"Yep. That's actually why I'm here. Visiting him. I'm thinking of getting a job in the area, an apartment." The lies keep flowing. Once she turns the spigot, the faucet won't stop pouring; her knobs and handles are long-broken. "Of course, he's between jobs, though – Mom and Dad always said he was pretty worthless. Me, I've got a real competitive spirit. I figure I can come down here, find him work, show him who's boss, humiliate him into getting his slacker ass in gear."

"Hope it works. Charlotte's a nice city."

"Nice," she repeats. "Yeah, it's certainly very nice." Nice. She says the word in her head, and it sounds mocking, whiny. The city is nice in an antiseptic way, in a clean lines and polished metal way. She'd much rather have New York, Philly, Richmond: the dirt, the grime, the odd angles, the chemical air, the smell of garbage intermingling with the odor of strange foods.

"You ready to go?" he asks.

The pit of her stomach goes sour. She's not ready to go. She's really not.

"Of course," she says, and she steps toward him to take his hand.

"The chariot awaits."

The movie sucked. Dinner was mediocre.

Miriam feels like she's lost her way. The two of them sat next to each other during the movie, and across from each other at the Italian joint, but it felt like they were a thousand miles apart. He'd move in – a question, a look, a reach across the table – and she'd recede – a dismissal, a look away, her hand withdrawn to her lap. Two magnets turned the wrong way, repelling instead of attracting.