It�s clear outside tonight and I�m stretched across the backseat of the Accord and the pallet of stars encrypted like bumps of brail in the sky embed vivid shapes, no, abstract shapes, constellations, and things from the subconscious into the universe. The sky isn�t completely dark; a red haze floats from the ground up, intermingles with a deep purple, until finally evolving to a midnight blue-black.

Tonight, we have a destination.

Kat drags the Accord into the parking lot of an all-night eatery. Emerging from the ground next to the building is a billboard, Jailhouse Rock Restaurant. There are only a handful of cars in the parking lot. Most people don�t eat at two in the morning, but this is the only time I have an appetite.

Jake shoves the door open and flips the seat up so I can get out, too. Kat flips her seat, only back, and she�s laying horizontally, eyes absorbing the bumps of brail out the moon roof.

You guys go ahead, she says. I�ll be there in a minute.

Is something wrong?

No, I�m fine. I just need to sing.

As Me and Jake walk towards the restaurant we hear the sound of Counting Crows slowly ascend to a blistering volume. The music is muffled, like that of a stereo from an upstairs apartment, but we can still hear Kat�s voice bellowing over the top.

I think she got another letter from her dad, Jake says.

Oh, I say.

We walk by Marilyn Monroe; she�s smoking a cigarette in the parking lot outside the restaurant. Her apron is hung on her shoulder and she�s shivering in her white dress, teeth chattering between each drag. Inside, we are greeted with swing time 50s music and a man with short dark hair and black thick framed glasses. His nametag says �Buddy.�

Howdy folks, says Buddy cheerfully. How many we having tonight?

Three.

It�s pretty slow tonight, says Buddy. Choose any car you like.

Huh?

Right this way, says Buddy.

Buddy leads us to a 1954 baby blue Thunderbird convertible and opens the passenger side door. The inside of the car has been cut out and seats have been placed on each side of a table in its center. The whole restaurant is filled with these classic car tables. The walls are covered with old rock and roll posters; Elvis, The Doors, The Stones, they�re all here.

When I�m around dead people, I say, I feel alive.

I used to go to funerals, Jake says, for people I didn�t know.

I�ve never thought of that.

It�s intense. When you�re there, Jake says, it feels like something jumps inside you and crawls around under your skin.

Like the hotel room feeling?

Better.

How often did you go?

Twice a week.

Sounds like a fix, I say.

Buddy�s back, he wants our order. Jake demands an English muffin, no butter. I tell Buddy I want a grilled cheese sandwich with French fries.

I need a cigarette, Jake says.

I think I might go to church tomorrow.

What?

Kat invited me to her church, I say. I think I might go.

Why?

Something new.

I see Kat walking around the restaurant. She is lost. She can�t find where she needs to be. I lure her to the table and she sits across from me, next to Jake.

What�s with this place? she says. It�s so weird.

Feeling better?

Her eyes are puffy; a pinkish-red rests under the lashes.

Yeah, she says weakly.

A long silence draws out save the fifties jukebox next to our table.

My dad sent me another letter, Kat says finally, voice dim and timid. She is about to reveal something unpleasant.

What did it say?

He was telling me why he molested the little girl.

Man, that�s intense.

He said his life was too linear. She chews her finger, stops, and says, So he started to beat my mom.

Kat�s eyes started to shine and squint.

He said that worked for only a little while. So he started to beat me.

A tear tweaks from her eye and settles on her placemat. Jake puts his arm around Kat and squeezes her shoulder.

He said he molested the little girl because the more evil he became, the more God wanted to forgive him. He says God hates losing.

Damn, Jake says. What do you think?

It makes sense, she says, but he�s still a psycho.

When does he get out?

Soon, she says.

We pile into the Accord and head towards Kat�s house. Kat�s house is near a bicycle trail that tracks around a small creek. The Accord parks itself in front of Kat�s house and three of us start to walk the trail: Kat and Jake in front, me trailing a bit behind. I�ve seen this same body of water during the day; green slime molests the surface and chunks of moss and algae line the edges near land.

Tonight, under the pale glow of the moon, the creek looks beautiful.

Jake twists his pastel green beanie over his long, murky hair. He is puffing in short, slow breaths watching the smoke exhale out his mouth. When he sucks his cheeks cave like small puddles and the cherry of the cigarette begins to flash and flicker and flames a devilish crimson color and my eyes are burning again. Kat�s eyes are detached and lifeless, staring off into a field of weeds. I can�t imagine what could be going through her head, but I can see that it�s cracked and split, bleeding confusion.

The spot is right up ahead, she says in a trance.

Between our shadows, I see a bridge and on top of the bridge rests a pair of railroad tracks and on either side under the bridge there is a cement slab that emerges and slants from the creek and connects with the bottom of the bridge. Jake and Kat and Me lay down on the cement slab, feet inches from water, heads inches from bridge. The creek smells something similar to bad deodorant; the kind of scent that smells only when you sweat. The cold cement runs through my clothes and sinks in my flesh and the dirt under my head makes me feel welcomed in the same way you feel welcomed by those pleasant, heartbreaking smiles of door-to-door religion salesmen.

Jake fingers his beard and says, I made love to my piano last night.

What?

Last night, I was playing my piano in the dark. We made love.

What did it feel like? I mean, it wasn�t sexual, right?

Making love to a person isn�t sexual either, Kat says.

Yeah, exactly, Jake explains. I was just playing with no thought, not really knowing what was happening at all. I was just playing. I had all these feelings I�ve never felt before. It was really emotional, like I was touching it with my innermost self. Now that I�m thinking about it, it seems just like a blur, but I remember. I felt authentic. I don�t even know how long I was playing, it could have been for a split second, but it�s not like I wanted to force it either. You just let go.

The wind starts to sing and from the left or right you can hear the tree leaves mingle and dance.

That sounds great, I say quietly.

Yeah, it sounds incredible, Kat says, but I don�t know if that�s making love.

Well, what is making love?

I don�t know exactly. About two people that love each other uniting souls. You can�t make love without soul.

I have a soul.

That�s true, Kat says.

Music has soul.

Yeah, that�s true too.

I made love to music.

The ground starts to shake and Kat seals shut her eyes and grabs my hand.

This is the best part, she says.

From above, a large bass filled roar fuses with a treble of noise and floods our ears. The water folds in small dimples and when I shut my eyes it feels like I�m inside the cab, manhandling the tracks. The earth shivers. The train passes and fades.

Have you guys ever made love?

Not to a person, I say.

Me either, Kat adds.

I wonder why that is. Why we can�t get over the physical element of sex.

Because we�re told not to, I say. It�s not about making love anymore, it�s about marketing.

That�s true.

Those magazines made me bulimic, Kat says.

Huh?

I was bulimic two years ago. It turned to anorexia. I was fucked up. I can�t even look at those magazines anymore. I thought the only way someone would love me is if I looked like one of those models. God, I was so American.