Her body limp underneath you while you spasm and twitch your way to another mediocre orgasm. She lights a cigarette as you’re convulsing.

Smoking, staring out the sliding glass door of the motel room you subsist in, lighting the next off the last, disconnected.

Ashing all over the carpet, your filth running down her thighs, watching the sun reflect off the pool.

A distracted drag as the television yammers on about war and plastic surgery. You tie off your arm.

Minutes pass.

That same vacancy in her eyes as she steps over your foaming mouth to rinse herself off in the shower. Buttoning your shirt over her tits, she takes the last twenty you had and the rest of your joes. Dials 911 from the hotel phone and sets it next to your face while you OD and walks out through the sliding glass into bleached sunlight.

Nothing feels clean. Nothing fucking matters. An inch of ash hanging off her lip as she starts her old man’s 442 and pulls into traffic.

The road is as empty as the sky and nothing matters.