text: Tires in the rain hissed on the street as the door opened. The scents of popcorn and petrichor mingled beneath the marquee as Rian and Angeline passed the ticket line leaving the movie theatre. The parking lot was pitch black, but Rian's car was along the street. By the light of his phone, his key found its slot in the door. "That side doesn't lock," he told Angeline. "Just pull." On Rian's third try, the car's motor exploded to life, perceptible from miles away. A lonely headlight pierced the night at a crooked angle, winking now and again. Last year's window wipers smeared the city rain across the dirty windshield. The driving wheel pulled right agressively, but Rian spared Angelia his other hand to hold. Bald tires carried Rian's uninsured lemon to Angeline's house. The brakes complained loudly on arrival. Something shifted in the trunk with a slam. Rian walked Angeline to her door. Angeline traded stupid words with her date, and pressed her mouth against his. Rian's hands crept up her shirt. She made no protest. Rian mentioned that his parents were out of town. The moment passed. Angeline's porch light was collecting moths, but the door was locked. She let herself in with the key from under the plastic rock. Rian retreated to his jalopy and made for his house as he fiddled with the radio. More than one stop sign was regarded merely as a suggestion. His windows were white with fog by the time he was home. Rian went inside through the laudry room door and kicked off his wet shoes. He threw his jacket, borrowed without his brother's permission, to the top of the dryer. Hunger registered in Rian's stomach on boredom's behalf. Without so much as a flick of the kitchen lights, he descended upon the fridge. Lo and behold, there was still macaroni salad, but in the back of the crisper, hidden like some relic, was a lone can of beer in a paper bag. Rian stared at the can, hearing the murmur of the downpour outside. He wasn't certain he could play dumb enough to his parents if there was only the one can. If there were four or five, fine, but just the one? The tab popped and spray misted Rian's face as he sucked up the foam. He closed the fridge with one socked foot, and the kitchen went dark. Rian set the macaroni salad by the microwave. On the other side of the counter there was a man sitting at the dining room table in the dark. Rian shouted and stumbled back. He threw his drink at the man, who closed the distance between them. His hands were hot on Rian's neck and arm. Releasing Rian's arm, the man's hand plunged into Rian's front pocket. Rian jerked, he could feel the man's hot breath. The man's hand produced Rian's phone. The light of the activated screen illuminated the man's face. Rian's eyes squinted as the phone screen turned to him. His eyes widened at one of many photos of Angeline, underdressed, features striking. A number of features shared even now by the man with a hand on Rian's neck. The phone vanished from site, and Rian was yanked around. His head slammed against the surface of the dining room table, a great weight held his chest down. Rian's hand scrambled for a purchase, but the table was slick with beer. The phone reapeared bearing a photo of Angeline in a swimsuit. The swish of a thumb revealed Angeline wearing even less. Rian shook his head, coughing up a failed plea. The phone turned away. The screen's light danced in the chandelier on the ceiling and across the man's face, transfixed in anguish. The screen turned to Ryan revealing a photo he'd taken himself. A photo of half of himself, and all of Angeline. Blinding pain smashed into Rian's face. Hot blood poored from his nose. Rian's vision swirled in the dark as he was struck again and again. Something hard hit him in the lip, forced its way into his mouth, breaking a tooth. His cheecks screamed with pain. The screen lit up. The man's fist struck like a hammer, driving the phone, shattering screen and all, deeper and deeper into Ryan's mouth. Slivers of glass tumbled into Rian's throat. Angeline's shameless smile beamed between the splits in the screen like the bars of a cell. An uncontrollable jet of hot vomit erupted from Rian's throat. The weight left his chest, and he pulled the phone free of his mouth, retching. Before Rian passed out, he tried to feel if there was still glass in his throat. When he awoke in morning to the sound of birds greeting the sun, Rian would recall the dark of the former night, and the sound of sobbing that wasn't his.