Izzy’s brow pushes up and she smiles. I made this for you, she says. She passes him a thin brown paper bag. The professional sleeve sort of bag with a smooth sheen.

Awesome, Jude says. The sleeve makes a crackling sound as he unfurrows it. He draws from it a parchment paper. The paper is thick and impressed with ink. Thank you, he says as he studies the parchment.

I did it in my printmaking class, she says. She cranes her neck forwards and nods. She was a sophomore in art school.

He’s not much older. It’s wonderful, he says, flicking on the dome light above to make sense of the lines, as he sits in the passenger seat of her parked car.

There’s like, boars, and they’re trying to eat the woman’s face.

There’s a subtle horror to the drawing. I see that, he says.

Well, really, they’re trying to eat at her fruit, but they keep going. It’s never enough.

Jude moves his pointer finger along the print and stops at the toppling basket the woman is holding. He feels the texture of the ink and grooves of the print. This is really special, he says.

Thanks. She nods. It’s definitely my best one yet.

A car passes by. It crushes leaves and then ruffles them up against the concrete curb. Some remain suspended, twirling in the air, in the car’s wake.

He drags his finger down to the bottom corner of the page. Forty-three out of a hundred, huh, he says.

Her head wanders back. She was looking at a street lamp. I like that the street lights come on when it’s still light out, she says. Well, you know, dusk anyways. That’s probably the most magical time of the day—twilight.

Where are the first forty-two? he asks.

You have forty-three, that’s all that matters.

Jude rubs the parchment between his thumb and finger and slides it back into the paper bag. A breeze carries the woodsmoke smell of autumn dusk through the cabin of the car and his hair waivers in the breeze. There’s a sharp chill to the air.

When did you make it?

I mean, I—they just finished drying when I left the studio. Some yesterday, some today, I guess, she says.

Did you, like, run into forty-two people on the way here? Do you even know forty-two people?

Those words bit her. What’s the matter with you, Jude?

I just figured that, maybe… never mind, he says. He looks away, pursing his lips and softly shaking his head.

What? she asks, confused and prying. She lifts her leg up onto the seat, adjusting her position. She holds her shin and calf, settling into the driver’s seat.

He continues staring off. You know… that maybe I was a higher number than forty-three. Like, I don’t know. He looks over at her and their eyes meet. He is sullen. I don’t know, I just thought I was something else. Maybe a twenty. Hell, maybe even a ten… or a one.

I don’t know what’s gotten into you—it’s just a number on the print. She’s defensive and confused.

Yeah, I get it, he says. He opens to the car door.

No, you don’t, she says, raising her voice. He makes motions to leave and she grabs at him. Jude, get back here, she says through her teeth.

He breaks free, gets out, and shuts the car door. He kneels down outside and rests his elbows on the window sill and looks at her. I don’t know that I want to, he says.

She’s exasperated and draws her words out conciliatorily. Quit being a jerk, she says.

He doubles down in his posture. I feel like I’m always chasing something that’s not there with you, he says. I’m just fluttering along.

Izzy looks away as a tear breaks from her eye and slides down her cheek.

This is just something that I don’t think I can do anymore, he says.

Fuck you, Jude, she says with a crunched face, eyeing a distant lamppost.

We shouldn’t see each other anymore. I can’t be number forty-three. I’m sorry.

She turns to him. Her jaw is clenched. She feels hot inside and on her neck. I’m sorry too, she says. She fumbles for her keys in her lap and puts them into the ignition. She starts the car.

Well, he says. He shakes his head, I don’t know. He gives a light wrap where his hands are and picks up and walks off.

Izzy sits for a moment fighting a choking feeling. Her fingers are tight around the steering wheel. She takes a moment to herself. She slowly rocks her head back, takes a deep breath, and finds composure. She pulls the transmission into drive and creeps the car forward to the crosswalk where Jude is standing. He looks over at her and is holding the print.

She clears her throat. I know that what I do doesn’t make sense, she says. But I’m not that fucking great. Print making is really fucking hard, and it took forty-two fuckups before I made the perfect one. And still, it’s somehow fucking ruined.

He ruffles his brow and before he can say anything Izzy pulls away. He holds forty-three, staring at her taillights and shrinking car as it pulls the leaves up into the air.

– D. Daniel Perry