At a dive bar in Hoboken

"The poor oxen! What do they do without their tails?"

She's talking about borsch.

She’s sitting 4 stools down from me, singing 'fly me to the moon' louder than the jukebox, louder than everyone else's conversations. Her cell phone is permanently in a state of flux, going from opened to closed in timed intervals. Her cigarettes are longer than her fingers and it figures.

I call her Norma even though the bartender says, "Alright Christina." It doesn't fit. Hers is a name for a young girl with a life full of tender and sweet moments yet to come: beaches, benches with panoramic views of skylines, boys with first names like Jared and Jonathan. My name is better suited. It brings to mind eyes trailing mascara, stumbled, crooked walks home early in the morning, a car permanently going in reverse and accelerating into the same roadblock.

Her phone is blinking and vibrating on the bar. I feel obliged to go outside and tell her but I think better of it and wait for her return.

When she walks back in the first thing she does is open her phone, exclaiming to everyone, "9-11? What a terrible time to call!"