She said, You're a river with an alibi, and you'd never have lasted in this town. She said, It's not the water calling you, it's the motion; the west coast is just a pin-ball bumper.

No one knows I've decided to move to San Francisco, I told her.

She said, It doesn't matter -- everyone knows. She said, it is why you're never loved where you land; you're too bright for those kind of eyes.

She said, You're meant to stun as motion. No one wants to see you standing still -- it reminds them too much of how where they're standing is likely where they will die.

Aloud she said, "You're meant to be seen as a contrail."

I said.

I said nothing; and quietly taped together another box.

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