by Keetje KuipersIf I have any romantic notions left, please let me abandon them here on the dashboard of your Subaru beside this container of gas station potato salad and bottle of sunscreen. Otherwise, my heart is a sugar packet waiting to be shaken open by some other man's hand. Let there be another town after this one, a town with an improbable Western name—Wisdom, Last Chance—where we can get a room and a six-pack, where the fireworks end early, say nine o'clock, before it's really gotten dark enough to see them because everyone has to work in the morning. I'm not asking for love anymore. I don't care if I never see a sailboat again.
