The Razr vibrates.
He hugs you. It’s clumsy. His chin digs into your shoulder. He smells like gasoline and laundry detergent and something else—something that’s just him . You close your eyes and memorize it. The way his heart beats against your ribs. The way his fingers press into the small of your back. Stay -2005-
“You better.”
He reverses out of the driveway. The gravel spits. He gives you one last look through the rear window. A half-smile. Then he turns the corner, and the taillights disappear into the bruised-purple dusk. The Razr vibrates
“Yeah. That’s the point.” He kicks a loose pebble. It skitters under the U-Haul. “No memories there.” Stay -2005-
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.