The car is grey, a Jetta. It has no name, but this seems fair.
My emotions belong; my emotions don't belong to me.
There are alternate explanations, she says. While she is not right, I am reminded that there may be parallel universes—dimensions or spaces or voids in which her alternate decisions live; the results of the decisions she could have made hang in the syrup sky as collapsed stars, their gravitational field pulling in everything except everything that could have happened.
All the sounds could be unheard, the touches taken back, the kisses dissolved, the unconscious spine ache cleared and intentions restated;
I could have happened another way.