Passing Ghosts

(This should have been three stories. Then I realized that I was telling one story three times.)

It could have been a motel room, a hotel suite, the back of a car.

She could have been a prostitute, a politician, a student.

He could have been a cop, a married man, a teacher.

It doesn’t matter.

He still would have stared into nothing, feeling the air grow slowly colder.

She still would have curled up into a ball, feeling the sweat dry from her skin.

In a few minutes, one of them will get up and look for their clothes.

The other will ask them to stay.

In the end, it remains the same.

It doesn’t matter.

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