He’d driven her out to what the local kids liked to call Fuck Point. They’d even gone so far as to spray-paint it on the road sign. He couldn’t tell if the name was supposed to be edgy or honest. Perhaps it was some sort of warning to the poor souls who thought they were being brought there for more romantic purposes. Whatever the reason, he didn’t much care for the name. It gave people the wrong impression when you really were headed there for innocent reasons, like hiking or taking pictures or preparing for the end of the world.

They sat on the hood of his rusted out P.O.S. Chevy Nova, which he’d brought to the very edge of the cliff. They had a perfect view of the night sky and the brightly lit city below. It was a Wednesday night and no one was getting lucky, leaving Fuck Point completely deserted. Good thing, too, because the usual symphony of lustful moans and squeaking suspension systems really would have taken away from the significance of the night.

“Tell me…” he finally said, “everything.”