Perhaps because we were not as deep into the impossible as we had thought, we found no dragons and so slipped back into our own reality. The Police had gone, but the car was still there.
I say, “This is not my beautiful car. You are not my beautiful wife.”
You say, “This car was never that beautiful. It was also never a Chevy, but never mind that. If I’m not your beautiful wife, which wife am I?”
I say, “Don’t know. You could be my beautiful ex-wife but for two points.” But I didn’t go on. I look at the car instead, wonder why it is not a Chevy. Was it ever a Chevy? I couldn’t recall.
You say, “And those are?”
Looking up, I say, “Are what? Please make sense, please?”
You say, “What are the two points that demonstrate that I cannot be your beautiful ex-wife?”
I say, “I give up. What are they?”
You say, “The two reasons I cannot be your beautiful ex-wife is that we’ve never met, and, having never met, we could not have married.”
I say, “Right. Stupid that. We would have made great exes. We could have had an affair or something. Do you know why this car isn’t a Chevy?”
You say, “We’ve driven that car as far as we could, and since we’re now out West, we should abandon it.”
I say, “Since it was never a Chevy, I guess we should.”