We are trapped in traffic beneath the overpass, and the man in his story trembles on the edge

of an overpass eight hundred miles west of here. Here, I have not tried to die for some years now.

The point of his story is the call someone makes to nearby truck drivers. Together,

they gather beneath the man to form a net of big rigs and wait for as long as it takes for a person to reconsider

the impossibility of tomorrow. I’ve known the mangled shape the mouth makes begging someone

not to die. Which is different from begging her to live. My husband’s mouth, I think, makes this shape now.

All my life I thought I was hard to love.