Working Out.

I was drunk. I was in the passenger seat as Marie drove us home. We were stopped at a red light in the middle of our town's bar district. I saw a man outside with a woman. They were both obviously above forty. They were both obviously new friends. She was grabbing his waist. he was smiling.

"It's not going to work out, my man," I slurred from the car to myself.

The light turned green and we drove on at ten or twenty or however many miles an hour. As we passed the second and final set of bars on the other side of the road, Marie's side, I saw a young blonde girl with a man with pants around his thighs.

"You either," I said.

I felt bad for both of them.

"But what is working out now?" I said.

"What?" Marie said.

"I mean, does it mean, lasting forever? Fuck, that's almost impossible. And then, to be happy forever? Jesus Christ. That's like asking the sun to come down, and have tea with you. It's just not going to fucking happen man. So what is 'working out'?"

"I don't know honey."

"Maybe working out is just having something to look back on and smile about."

"Maybe."

"Maybe, amidst a 78 percent divorce rate, or whatever the fuck it is, maybe 'working out is just a moment. Finding a moment that in you darkness you can say, 'yeah, she was a cunt, but that time at the orchard was beautiful'. Maybe working out is just working toward a beautiful moment in life."

"What about people like us?" she asked.

"We have our ups and downs."

"True."

"And we have plenty of wonderful memories."

"We do," she said.

"Maybe what is making us 'work out' is this string of good memories and the promise of more, maybe the recognition that between the two of us the chance of good memories in the future is higher than normal."

"Maybe," she said. "So, what about true love?"

"What about it?"