What It Costs to Get There

She said it like a passing note—

the furnace, some grinding, she'd looked it up.

I said okay. I cleared my throat.

We talked about something else. The cup

of the call ran out. Goodbye.

I opened the search. Round trip.

One eighty-eight. My eye

moved left: the account. The grip

of the arithmetic. Three

hours, fast train. Four, the slow.

One eighty-eight. The fee

I didn't pay. The low

particular sound a furnace makes

in a house three hours from mine.

I closed the fare tab. The stakes

I keep explaining: the line

is she didn't ask. I know.

She never asks. I've got

that down. I'll call. I'll go

through it Sunday. The plot

doesn't change. The furnace still

making its sound. The tab

closed. The account. The bill

for distance. The cab

I didn't take. The cold

up there by now. The fare

I didn't pay. The old

math, running. The air

between her furnace and mine.