Richmond Fontaine Follow

I picked you up after work and you changed in the car
Even after all this time just your skin and your black bra and the scar on your back from when you were a kid
We had the windows rolled down

You quit putting money into the vacation box
I asked you why and you said it didn't matter because we never ended up going anywhere anyway
Maybe you were right

You opened up the bag between us and took out a wine cooler and told me about this guy who came in two days earlier
He had a pain in his guts, it turns out he had cancer
"He died this morning
He was my patient and he was our age," you said
"I'm just glad it's not you
I'm just glad it's not you."

We drove out and saw this Mariachi band that was playing near the airport
We go out there at least once a month and we get so drunk I barely get us home
But I always get us home and on the way back you tell me about this woman who came in a week ago and no one visited her, no one at all
By the end the woman crawled so far back into herself she could barely speak

We live out by the mall and when we got home you lie down on the couch and turn on the TV 'cause you say you can't sleep without it anymore
I stay out there for a while then I go back to our room
We hardly ever sleep next to each other

But I still remember once we were in a motel room on the coast
It was your birthday and we were going to see Lou Rawls at this Indian casino
And you were walking around in your underwear and I said something, and you started laughing so hard you fell back on the bed
See, it can be like that too