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Jesse feels as if he is at an edge of something, but very steadily grounded still and rational. Closer still, he begins to tear his life apart, or the problems of his life, word for word verbatim from his soul for her listening leisure, and he wonders her name for a short while before he snaps out of it, awake from his manic deep thinking, and then Jesse forgets all about it. Refuses to allow names into this motel room, he thinks. No names, please, he thinks, no names ever, pouring new liquor in their glasses and the whiskey purrs an aroma almost burning. The air is cold inside the motel room like their fingers. All these people drinking lover’s spit sings from the small alarm clock radio, baby speakers on a low volume, on the drawer between the beds, like it’s the last song of the evening’s broadcast, and she doesn’t say much. She doesn’t really move much either. She lets him talk and monologue from the bed laying down. Jesse begins swaying the ice clinking inside his drink inside his glass and he feels better.
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