Maybe you're standing there with toes wiggling in your shoes, wondering what to do. Hesitation robs you of stupid stories to tell, so go on and do whatever it is you're thinking about…

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I remembered a screen door in Long Island where strands of Marlboro smoke slipped outside into a frigid, still night. Snowflakes passed between yellow porch lights at Winnie's motel where Justin kept a cheap off-season room -- the only tenant overlooking the beaches and dunes since summer's surges of city traffic and tourists were gone.

A mini refrigerator held crumbled sandwich wrappers and packets of mustard. A six-pack would emerge from somewhere every night, then disappear. Justin's counter tops held snarled guitar strings and Lou Reed album covers buried in cascading cigarette butts. He liked to light one smoke off the dying end of another -- the discarded glowing filter propped beneath a ratty ceiling fan while he kicked at his amp and moved stained fingers across the strings.

He smoked and liked thick black leather belts. I set up a bed on the couch and fetched a beer -- his number one love in the world, even since Alice. She was gone to Connecticut, but I knew he was around.

I went looking for Justin's truck on a Saturday when I told Tommy goodbye. Things had been bad and although Tommy and I were polite, the bad things stayed that way. Nobody smiled and I woke one morning knowing it was time to go. He was my boyfriend once but who was he now, and who was I?

Before Tommy went out that morning he said, see ya later.

I gave him my best rubber smile. I don't think that you will, I said.

Staring at the metal dashboard and looking at the chipped white paint on the side mirrors, I heard Lou Reed in my head. "Rock n Roll" beat out the sound of six cylinders and a bad exhaust. I stopped for a pack of Marlboro's. I wish I had Lily then.