If they are not together they are still packing everything they own into a car and leaving. If they are not together I still don’t know their names. They could be anybody, know anything, do anything. They might be running away together, eloping, leaving a body in the bathtub to be slowly eaten away by lime, having an adventure, absconding with the church funds. They might be in disguise. They might be aliens, might be only wearing these faces while I’m watching them. You never know. There’s a small blue sticker in the corner of their rear window with a yellow = on it. I’ve seen one of them at the gay bar, I think, slicked out in drag, but I don’t know. If they’re not together. They might not know each other. They might have just met this afternoon, might be together only long enough to get to the next town, the next gas station, the state line. They might be drug runners, bootleggers, couriers, spies. Maybe one of them has military secrets hidden inside a false tooth and the other one has the key to decode the secrets sewn up behind her belly button. I don’t know, I can’t say, I don’t know anything except that they are packing themselves into a car and driving away while the earth swings up over the sun and the sky catches fire. They might be anything, might be anyplace else but here.