MAYA stands by the window, watching the motel sign flicker. Buzz. Pop. Dark. Buzz.
The room is silent except for a low-fi track spinning on a battered turntable. The needle skips once, a sharp scratch in the quiet.
(Softly, dangerously)If you’re gonna go, go. Don’t do it in slow motion.
Maya leans into the touch for a fraction of a second before pulling away. She grabs a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. Then go. Before I change my mind and ask you to stay.
We’re "Lovers Spit," Maya. Everything we have is beautiful, but it’s just... it’s just something we're getting rid of.
(Without turning)You know, if you leave now, you’ll beat the morning fog on the bridge. Cloe doesn’t look up. Her shoulders tense. CLOE Is that what you want? For me to beat the fog?