She was standing in the kitchen when I got home, leaning against the doorframe, phone in her hand. Her shaggy black coat was still on, her backpack hanging over both shoulders. 

Her keys were hung over her pinky on the hand holding the phone. Her other hand was sliding back and forth across the screen, first to the right, then to the left, then to the left again, then right, left, left, left. With each left hand slide the motion became bigger, more dramatic, until her arm made a full circle like Pete Townsend doing a windmill strum. With each circle she whispered a little, “no... no...no....”

He sits in his car, a red 2011 Toyota Carolla, parked close to the curb in front of her house.

He sits forward on the hard orange plastic seat, his shoulders over his knees like divers preparing to jump. His body rocks with the motion of the train car. His tie wiggles in his lap like a trained cobra preparing to rebel against the charmer.