They speed through daylight obscured while sitting too close. The rings on their fingers don’t match despite earnest dreaming. With mist and shadow they build houses, make children with corresponding eye colors and weave monogrammed hand towels.  They breathe a whole life onto a hazy windshield.

An alarm chimes.

Blinking, they move apart, left and right, away from where they were, as the fog lifts all at once. They awake to pain, like a slap in the face, like a flashlight in the eye held by a cop asking, do you know how fast you were going?