He lit up a cigarette, and popped his collar to shield the cold breeze coming off of Lake Michigan. How long had it been? Six months? A year? The days all blended together now in one long drunken haze.

He didn’t even feel like the same person anymore. She(1) wouldn’t recognize him. Hair shaggy, eyes dark and sunken, the gruff stubble, not quite a beard, but enough to tell he hadn’t shaved in a week.

But it was getting better. The pain never goes away, you just get used to it. It becomes white noise, something you learn to filter out of your perception with time.

A car pulled up to the curb. A 1967 Cadillac El Dorado. She(2) had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, clean and light brown, soft. She(2) leaned over and unlocked the passenger door, pushing it open. “Hey, stranger, need a ride?â€? she smiled as she winked. He smiled back.

He flopped down into the worn leather seat. The radio was playing. Might have been Wilco, he wasn’t sure.

For the first time in a long time, he was happy.