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They walk ahead of me almost holding hands, a puffy red heart almost suspended above them in a conjoined dream cloud, and I almost stab it with my cigarette, send it sputtering and whining into the night. Tomorrow while I'm taking out the trash I imagine each of them will be dictating love letters to a friend, each planning their ascent and subsequent colonization of the other: she'll teach him to wear deodorant more often, take off his socks before they go to bed, while he'll convince her Hemingway is a saint and Emily Dickinson is Martha Stewart. While I'm rinsing off a spoon, running the garbage disposal, they'll be on th