We almost hit a deer on the way up but we swerved just in time. The sky was a hundred million dilated pupils. Then on the way back down we saw a deer dead on the side of the road with its legs up like it was laying on its back and stretching up its legs in order to admire them better.

It ain't the same one, you said.

I put it out of my mind and watched the lines on the highway—lines, even though as fast as we were going they looked like one long line, anyone knows it's a bunch of lines running together. Eyes playing tricks, and if that's true maybe we did hit that deer and just put it out of our minds and let our eyes go abracadabra on us. Either way.

One thing about night is that it can always get darker on you. There we were in the middle of a country highway, not a car around, and the darkness started getting to us, creeping in under our collars the way a stiff wind sometimes can. I remembered all those times Mother talked about someone walking over her grave, the chill bumps on her arm that stayed for nearly half an hour. You said, We're almost there, and when I looked over you were dark outlined in dark, dark things rushing by outside your window that were probably just trees in the median.

Pretty soon you pulled off the highway and headed west for a bit. Then we pulled into the parking lot of a pancake house. We're here, you said. I said, Are we? You laughed to yourself, said, Less go inside, get somethin to eat.

We crossed the parking lot toward the door. The car was settling behind us, a bunch of sighs and clicks. It was thirty-two steps exactly to the door, a shame, since I guessed twenty-seven.

You picked the table in the corner by the window, fogged the window with your breath and traced a big X into it. You said, X definitely marks the spot.

The waitress came over, recognized you, said, What can I get ya? in a voice flat as a country highway. Oh, you said, I believe I'll have a cup of Sanka and a piece of cherry pie. My counterpart here will have an iced tea and a grilled cheese. The waitress walked off, her shoes squeaking, or maybe it was just one shoe.

You said, You know, I'll bet someone aimed for that deer.

The only other customer in the restaurant got up, stomping his feet like his legs had been asleep. He paid his ticket, said Ya'll have a good night now on his way out the door. I watched his taillights until they were as small as the deer's eyes were in our headlights, until they were gone.

It's just human nature, you said, to want to kill. Pure instinct.

Our food came, the waitress dropping your plate in front of you in a clatter, the coffee sloshing around in your cup but settling before going over the side. The tea was cold and sweet and reminded me of antifreeze and I drank it down in three long sips. I pushed my grilled cheese over to you. You dug the cheese out with your forefinger and spread it onto your pie.

You know what, you said, I feel a lot calmer with you here in front of me. I tried to remember where I'd heard that before but the closest I got was one night when I was twelve or thirteen and I snuck out to the swimming hole. Some friends were supposed to meet me but never showed, and I forced myself to jump in anyway since I went to all that trouble. My foot touched something slimy and I shot up quick, and did the backstroke for a while, and then I just tried to float for as long as I could. The stars that dotted the sky were as white as little baby teeth, and twinkled like diamonds, and it was a queer feeling—and this is the closest I came to remember where I'd heard what you said before—it was the queerest feeling, what with my front nearly bursting at all that glitter and joy and my back tense and frightened of what swam underneath.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall. I sat on the toilet seat for a while, just enjoying the quiet, then retaped the knife at my ankle. I had a delicate little cut where its edge got too close but nothing to holler home about. I let myself out and stood in front of the mirror, watching myself draw the gun from inside my shirt and aim. My face looked greenish and strange under the bathroom lights. It only had one bullet in it but of course I didn't tell you that.

I was about ready to come back out when the waitress walked in fluffing at her bangs. I pretended to wash my hands while she pulled lipstick from her apron and smeared it on, took the pins out her hair and put them back in, blew her nose. On my way out I saw that she had a runner in her stocking right behind the knee.

You were eating a second piece of pie, bits of cherry sticking to the corners of your mouth like blood under a neon light. My glass was full again, the ice shifting as it melted, a little puddle of sweat in a ring around the base.

Yep, you said, scraping the plate with the side of your fork, no getting around it. We're animals, and we have instincts.

I drank my tea down. You went and paid the ticket, the cash register ding hanging in the air for a few seconds. I thought of my single bullet, thought of shooting a hole in the night sky, making some kind of light.

The waitress took my glass, squeaked into the kitchen. I wiped off your X with a napkin, pushed my face into the window and watched it all go by: Our car in the parking lot where we'd left it. Those thirty-two steps. The highway, making that rushing sound even when there weren't any cars on it. All that relative dark, all them dark trees. That deer admiring its legs for all eternity. Us. Me. That swimming hole and that swath of stars. How I'd shoot the bullet directly above the deer so the light would shine right down upon it, how I'm not sure why. And you, standing there with your hand inside your shirt, looking like something that was just on the tip of my tongue.