Both the car and I were in a jam. It was crammed beneath eleven inches snow and I was locked in a conversation I couldn't escape from.
"I need you to take care of me," you cooed through parted lips.
"I don't live enough life for two," I said.
"But I love you," You pleaded.
I turned the key again. The car turned over, and died.
You lowered your eyes.
"Dan." I heard you say.
I let go of the key.
"Your eyes are the only visible part of your body, you know," I said. "Save for that your inside is a mystery to me. People are like seas, infinite, torrential, foreign. You can slap a few shoddy planks together and try to navigate a body, but you can't really know someone that way, not in a hundred years."
I turned the car over. It jolted free from the snow back and we meandered onto the slick road.
"Dan," you said pleadingly.
"How could you love me, if you don't know me."