All the Same
Jennifer Pieroni

He always misses the one light. There is a lot going on, commerce and foot traffic. She swears and pushes her hand against the windshield as he skids to a stop. 

"I should have driven," she says. 

"You always drive. How will I ever improve?" he says. 

Their city is new to them. Their neighbors look like a slightly different breed. The people wear their hair and pant legs a little off. They use words in conversation in ways that feel inaccurate. 

"We should have sex today," she says, thinking of socks and leg hair. 

"Today? OK," he answers. 

She is the kind of person who never likes to be surprised. Tell me everything all at once, she would say. Once it's all out there, at least I will know. And it helps to prepare for the sex, to commit to it psychologically. 

The reason he is not the best driver is that streets are all the same to him; nothing is very specific. The big box stores, the logos flashing. He once told her for lemons he would leave the house and drive in a direction at random hoping eventually he would find the grocery, a grocery, there are groceries everywhere. That tender feeling inside of him is the only way he will find them.

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