We drive towards my house. We drive towards the freeway. We drive towards downtown.
I'm shaking. I'm nothing. I'm wanting to be furious, to be sad, to be amused, to be anything, anything at all. I am silent, chewing on the corners of my lips.
We drive towards Intermezzo. I order an oaky chardonnay, which is not oaky at all, and my server refuses to acknowledge that I might make my living based on how I like wine.