"Take me somewhere no one will recognize us," I demand, as I get into his Pinto and slam the rusted door.  He doesn't respond, but instead turns up the volume on some crackling radio station and places his hand on my thigh. 

"This is not a relationship," I remind him, as I remove his unwelcome hand from it's resting place.  Without taking his eyes off the road, he lets out a deep laugh and grins, a smile that says you can tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night.  I hate how well this prick can read every one of my meticulously planned moves, moves I have spent years perfecting, moves that keep anyone from getting too close. 

He pulls into a little bar off of M89 and the roar of the engine dulls.  A whole life time of driving this route and I'd never one noticed this run-down place before. It looks like the type of dive where every person wants to tell you how goddamn special their family is, or ask what line of work you're in.  I'm skeptical, but he's already started walking through the doorway.

We sit at the end of the bar, he lights me a cigarette.  No one knew my name, and no one called him by his. The bartender keeps to himself. The regulars all seem too bogged down by their own troubles to pay any attention to us.

We had nothing to say, perhaps because anything we had to say we didnt want to say, and anything we wanted to say wasnt appropriate, possibly even less appropriate than the fact that we were sleeping together and he had a girlfriend. And I am not that girlfriend.  I swallowed a few Vicodin, he put his hand back on my thigh.