“People are yearning to be spoken to. They put on these faces and they complain all the time, but in the end people are so desperate for a stranger to come up to them and speak to them.”

“As long as the stranger is good looking and not a crazy homeless person, right?”

Christie ignored this.

We were driving, up north, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, and the sun was strong and it was burning my arms but I kept quiet about it.

We stopped by some tree and ate some sandwiches. I watched the sunset. There are so many things I’ve chosen not to be. A painter, a musician, a guy who cleans elephant shit. Christie leant her head on my shoulder and yawned.