“That was our worst fight yet,” she said. She was sitting in the passenger seat. He was in the driver’s seat rolling a joint.

“You think?” he asked, his concentration not breaking. “I’m sure we’ll have bigger better ones.”

“I wish you had a bigger, better one,” she said staring out the window. The rain was thumping on the roof of the car.

She looked back at him. She was always astonished at his ability to roll a joint with one hand. And at his ability to withstand her attacks. It wasn’t always like that.

“Here,” he said handing it to her after lifting it to his lips and taking a huge drag.

“Did you think she is beautiful?”

“That chick?” he said blowing out smoke. “C’mon.”

She took a hit, drawing in as deep as she could. Did pot medicate sadness or anger? She couldn’t remember.

“You know who is beautiful?” he asked, then answered, “Faye Wong in Chungking Express.”

“Yeah,” she said. “The scene where she goes into the pilot’s place and rearranges everything.”

“Fuck you,” he said flatly. “He’s a policeman not a pilot. And she fucks with his life. And you’re supposed to act like this is the first time I’ve said it.”

They exchanged silence and the joint.

“You can buy these legally at the pot store, now you know.”

“Some things you buy premade at the store, some things you don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like you.”

The rain stopped. The joint was now just a dying little ember. He rolled down the window and flicked it out.

“You know, I feel like I…”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Rescue me,” he said. “Just let the awkwardness and anger and all that shit wear off with the high.”

She realized how far they’d come. He didn’t want to be soothed, she felt like maybe she wanted to.

This is how it was supposed to be he had told her. Until they got to the winner’s circle in the cemetery, that place where couples are buried.

That always killed her. The winner’s circle.