Let's move to Arizona, she says. Knuckles pressed white with the pressure of tearing paper into hearts. The air between them thick with the smell of tea leaves and caramel. In the empty entry he stands like the door unhinged, watching the trapped dance of a lone lady bug against the window world just behind her. He doesn't say anything while she thinks of all the times he's walked in and out of her life as if she were a cheap motel room. Convenient and comfortable enough when necessary. Ugly and lonesome a place to remain for long. On the television two women argue over a man. The tinny laugh track reminds her that it's a comedy while she scratches a hole in her skin where the swelling remains from an old spider bite. He doesn't open the window.