I wish I could write you a road trip, a big orange bus on a pilgrimage to Salt Lake City sitting cross-legged on top of the book of Mormon, wishing I could sing like that.

I'd write about how I don't understand my companion's preoccupation with authentic roadside diners. It's suspect in a banal way …what it would mean for us to find one, I'm not sure but it would be vaguely ugly, have something to do with stewed rhubarb, vanilla ice cream, speculations about our waitress Patty's dreams.

Later, cheeks flushed from our encounter with the 'real', the girl from Brigham Young would expect me to make love to her, her hand stroking my cheek the first of her fingers entering me but I'd only be thinking about Patty, that very gentle violence.