No clear water. A rusted flow. Faucet squeaks. A dim light bulb swings back and forth over the sink. She left a long time ago.

Didn’t tell him where she was going. Just took off one night in the blue Dodge; had a dent in the right quarter panel. Never had enough money to get it fixed. He just left it.

He washes dishes with a bar of hand soap in the bathtub. Set them in a rack on the linoleum floor. Bits of food, old Spam, and remnants of TV dinners still clung to the plates.

Crickets chirp outside of his front window among the tall bushes and weeds. Shut up, he yells. Had about enough, he says with his eyes closed, in and out of a dream. A dream about her. How they used to be in love. Or so he thought. Maybe she never loved me. Just took advantage of me, he laughs. Looked around the trailer. Used me for all that I have.

In this dream, they’re walking down a dirt road. Holding hands. Talking. She wanted to be somebody. An actress, a model, someone famous.  He just wanted to be with her. Was perfectly happy working at the car wash. The tips weren’t bad. Every night, he brought her home flowers. She just kissed him on the cheek and laughed. Told him he was a fool. He’d nod his head and say, yeah. For you.

And, she left. No note.  No letter. Just a picture of them leaning against the toaster. He wondered about her. Probably went to Calfornia. Los Angeles, he thought. I’ll  see her again someday. On TV or a billboard. I’ll see her.