Sixty-eight.

Eventually even the name becomes painful to roll around in your mouth. Tiny slivers driving themselves into your tongue. A character in a movie shares it, those horrible syllables, and you cringe, spit up blood on the sidewalk.

At stoplights, he doesn't touch you like he used to. Red, and he would turn to kiss you, or dive his fingers into your hair. Sometimes they're the same ones, a fleeting deja vu. At the intersection of Islington and Bartlett, he doesn't even look at you.

Hair sticks to the side of your face and you begin to mouth the letter L. The light turns green, and it is too late. One-point-five minutes later and he parallel parks smoothly in front of his house, an action requiring hands and judgment, which you have always found to be attractive, as you are often lacking one or the other.

2am, bed, and you both fail to say "goodnight."