“Then let's talk. What's it like to live a hideous little trailer with dykes for moms?” “It's …” I pause for a moment to consider, ignoring his homophobia for a brief moment—exposure and education can cure that. “Fucking wonderful, actually.” “How?” he asks, but the question doesn’t sound as awful as it could. So we talk. We talk until the sun peeks above the horizon and the clock on the nightstand reads 4:22 in the morning. That's the last thing I remember. And then … there's blood all over my steering wheel. Nothing lasts forever. That is the nature of beautiful things.
