Driving sometimes late at night the reception is better at the far end of the FM spectrum. You stop at a stop light turning left and there's no one you're stopping for, just following rules, and you've found a sweet spot where the signal comes in so clear the big band could be in the back seat with your reusable grocery bags and spare umbrella. You don't want to go when you've got the green light, not with the slide of the slide trombone like a lover's hand on your neck, not with the crooning soprano begging you to stay, stay, stay just a little bit longer.
When you go anyway, because you must for other rules and greater wants, her voice slips back into static. She is a fiction that flared only for a moment, though there's always a chance that it was she who was tuning just then into you, and not the other way around.
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