David jumped in his car and gunned it East. “Take a private jet will you,” he seethed. “We’ll see about that.”

Unfortunately, 101 is the freeway supporting his Miata, not the miles per hour allowable under California state law.

Twice as angry, and now 21 minutes behind, David guided the diminutive coupe out of sight and gunned it again.

The desert blurred into a giant mud-brown slideshow, bleached by the sun’s constant rays. This is good, it gives him time to think, reflect, feel.

Slowly, the speedometer started to come back to earth as previously unnoticed aspects from last nights argument poked at his brain. The glances, a soft sigh, inevitability.

The Miata angled slightly to the right before pulling an insta-U in the harsh sunlight. He’d lost her months ago and never even realized it. Las Vegas held nothing for him except the protracted death of a long lost relationship.

There was work to do, pieces to assemble in Los Angeles. “You don’t define me anymore,” he whispered to the washed out sky.