I’m hungover enough to wonder if the red stain I saw on the rocks above the highway was a cardinal frozen in the ice. I recently read about a Bavarian priest who found two kingfishers preserved below the surface of an icy pond, blue and golden as the day they entered the water. Maybe that accounts for this, or maybe it really is just the hangover doing the thinking. I turn my head back to get another look and the rumble strips vibrate my focus back to the highway—though I realize I wasn’t paying attention to the road before. I was thinking of how much time has passed since someone has wanted to touch me. I grip my steering wheel with perfect posture. One of my knuckles is bleeding. I can’t seem to find anyone who finds me interesting or attractive, who wants to sleep with me and will crawl up afterwards to sigh loudly in my ear for no reason. I roll down the window and let air wash over my hand. It doesn’t feel cold enough for water to freeze over rocks, and I have never felt so unloved.