She is blonde and pretty. He is a shadow. She warms to him after a drink or two.
She reveals intimacies through her assessments of television surgeries. She falls silent between characters, fidgets between narrative points.
Later he holds in place the image of their interaction. He spreads it out on a table. With a scalpel he cuts along the edges of himself. Blade paper and line flow. When he is finished, he removes himself from the scene. Then he repeats the operation with her.
The cutting liberates them from memory. They become detailed color forms.
He puts them in a car and sends them driving along a back road in autumn, two loose bundles of attributes in motion through a glowing red-tree light under complexes of branches that spiral upward like capillaries until their edges disappear into soft dunes of fog.
She warms to him after a while or two. She reveals herself through assessments of television surgeries.
They drive through the same space again and again. Their passages rearrange the details.
The years accumulate in the form of memory of the many different ways he has felt about her television show intimacies.
This sector of the Zone of Forgotten Stories is an element from an immense stack, car atop car driving down road atop road.