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need to get to know themselves better. Unfortunately, no one is really happy.
    Of course, I don’t say any of that. Instead, I just mutter, “It will be okay. I promise,” and I rest my head on Her shoulder. We sit that way for what seems like forever, in complete, exhausted silence, neither of us daring to let go of the other. Her roommate is washing the dishes. The radiator exhales with a dusty sigh. We fall asleep sitting up.
    We leave for tour a couple of weeks later, on a cold, gray morning, the van and a tiny trailer loaded and rattling. Unsafe. I kiss Her good-bye, hold Her tight, promise to call when we get to Davenport. As we head west on 88, it occurs to me that she never actually said she was okay with any of this. We press on anyway, Dekalb and Dixon and Sterling fly by, ghost towns filled with sad people who settled for what life offered them. The road unfurls before us. Everything is possible. I feel sick to my stomach.

7
     
    D es Moines. Van Meter. Neola. I want to disappear with you forever . Omaha. Percival. Sonora. I want to run away with you and never return . Kansas City. Bates City. Wright City. I want to fold you and put you in my pocket and have you with me always . St. Louis. Teutopolis. Indianapolis. I don’t know what else to say except I miss you and I love you .
    I write Her e-mails from the business centers of hotels. That’s the reason they’re there, after all. Sometimes we’re even staying at the hotel in question, though usually not. Most times the person at the front desk takes pity on me, lets me type messages to Her without much harassment. One time, this woman at a Holiday Inn in Iowa eyed me up real good and asked me, “Son, are your parents staying at this hotel?” and I lied to her and said, “Yes,” and then not only did she let me use the business center, but I got the free continental breakfast too. It was a highlight. It’s usually just me and maybe some business guy in there—it is a business center after all—and he’s always looking at sports or maybe reading some e-mails from his boss orwife or girlfriend his wife doesn’t know about. There’s always so much mystery in other people’s lives.
    I write Her e-mails because I’m no good on the phone. Never have been. And that’s bad when you’re out on tour, and the only time you have to talk is after shows, or while driving to the next city, crammed into a van with three other guys who haven’t showered in a few days and make fun of everything you say. Needless to say, we haven’t been speaking much. When we do, it’s short, strange. A few minutes here and there, updates on Her classes and the latest drama with Her family. Tour is going good. I’m behaving. Gotta go, love you. We can’t get off the phone fast enough. It’s like talking to your aunt on Christmas morning, when all you want to do is dive into the mess underneath the tree. It feels like an obligation.
     
    •   •   •
     
    The funny thing is, when I’m not sneaking into business centers, I barely think about Her. There’s no time. We are hitting the road hard this time out, something like twenty-five shows in thirty days, in big cities and college towns. We are sleeping on floors most nights, in people’s apartments, and I wake up most mornings with my head next to a litter box. I have an uncanny knack for this, it seems. One time, I woke up damp with cat piss. It was another highlight.
     
    •   •   •
     
    I read something in a magazine today.
    They did a study and found that countless men would choosegambling over love if given the chance. Even more would choose pornography over love if given the chance. We are cavemen; and it seems like that will never change. I wonder if the men they studied have ever really been in love? I wonder how corporations will use this information to their advantage? “Hallmark cards and boxes of Fanny May chocolates will save humanity,” or something to the effect. It depresses me to think