Saturday night turns Sunday morning and I'm driving us past the grain silos and railyards. Jack is beside me and two are in the back. Snapshots in my camera, of them in the back with their tangled bodies and rosy cheeks - only now can I see what lay outside the range of my rearview mirror. And Jack, the Jack who I used to hate because of his indifference and brawn, Jack becomes something diametric and complicated, something infinitely attractive.

Shanny, he mocks, come'on Shanny. I can't remember it, that minute of kissing goodnight. My mind could barely process that he was talking to me, let alone ingest the details of the kiss.

Now it consumes me. Jack. Those quick brown eyes, those take-me-into-them arms, that easy half-smile. I always get involved with the wrong ones.