Rushing into the desert the woman sees the newspaper: Tucson Man Kills Himself—for love she imagines—just like he wasn’t the one with the crooked mouth, hadn’t spit his girlfriend out like any Georgia trucker hawking Beechnut along the big road between Atlanta & Noplace, AZ with all that Indian paintbrush on the verges ruining his eyes.
A churlish driver, the woman curses the Neon, the brute Ram, Bam! while above the traffic the moon glitters like an alligator overnight case belonging to an escaping lover, emotions packed in haste.
Why notice the paper? Years passed like any man and now she dives into the desert where his sorry face is printed on every saguaro. Too bad, she thinks, how it all turned out—fucked up romance and no one to dance with at the wake.