She laughs, yes I do becomes a promise folded into a cigarette ember, into the slow nod of a stranger who knows the right song at the wrong hour. Outside, the night argues with itself in yellow cabs. Inside, they are incandescent and anonymous, a pair of lovers and witnesses and witnesses to lovers, marked by a timestamp and a tremor of certainty: Clubsweethearts — authenticated by breath, by beat, by the small, obstinate truth of being seen.