Evidence of some quiet daydream nudging in, an inner abstraction. She’s drawn her chin away to spectate those hazy, turpentine images sprinting past beyond the gloom-tint half of the car window. The only mildly familiar features of this road are its husky loom of far off trees and blank, vast areas of nothingness, and the memories of the scintillating layers of nightcreature eyes on her late night, lonesome drunk joyrides. The lantern jaws and slender deer snouts, dipping up and down in shadows.
“I’m probably the one that showed up, and everyone the fuck else was here already.” she finally says. She wants to talk about her ex-husband (that sore woundspot), wants to talk about how Cordelia kept on texting, but she hadn't answered, because she just wanted to fucking forget all of them after what she did. How she feels awful about everything. How people still wanting to know her makes her angry, because she deserves to be alone, doesn't she? How she's sorry, she's so sorry in her own way, and that she wants to change. She's changing. Instead, she says nothing, turns back with an idea-smile. Flicks her cigarette out and starts opening up a new pack.
“Turn here. We’ll go to the lake and spit in the water like high schoolers, maybe do a spell.” her smudged black bambi-eyes a'flutter, "I've got whiskey in my purse."