A man is sitting in a hotel bar, drinking by himself. A woman walks in with her friends. He recognises her. She left him four years ago. Four years, in which they haven’t even called each other.
She sees him too. They feel drawn to each other and can’t stop themselves. They leave together and go to her too expensive Rover with the mattress, that she stole from her roommate back in Boulder.
He tells her that he’s doing fine. He drinks too much and that’s an issue, but he’s okay. He tells her to tell her friends that it was nice to meet them, but he hopes he never sees them again. He tells her that she looks pretty.
She tells him, that he looks as good as the day she met him. She forgets just why she left him. She was insane. She asks him to stay and play that Blink 182-song that they beat to death in Tucson.
They recall together how they met. Two kids with broke-down cars. They pull each other closer. He bites the tattoo on her shoulder and together they move the sheets right of the corner of the mattress. They’ve got nothing to lose. After all, they ain’t never getting older.
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