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We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use. The asphalt rushes beneath my tires, and when the speedometer hits eighty, the steering wheel vibrates in my hands, this little sedan protesting. The trees along the interstate burn orange and gold, and the northern half of the East Coast stretches ahead of me. In September he drank his coffee every morning, went to work as a chiropractor, and treated patients with crooked spines.
In October he stayed in bed. I tried. I was twenty. Why am I thinking of him in the present tense again? This is two years later. This is now. To hang out, make out, see where this relationship is going. There might even be sex — my first. But this strip of interstate is too similar to the one that took me home to Pennsylvania. Leaves the color of rust on a knife. Leaves like saffron about to fall.
Everything about to fall. I placed them gingerly on the brown linoleum tiles because he was upstairs dying, and when a person is dying, it feels best to go about things gingerly. We mostly watched television. I press my foot on the gas, push the car past eighty, and turn up the music, something by R. I want to make this trip go faster, to get to this boyfriend of two weeks in record time. His lips are pink and full, and they kiss mine easily.
How could there be no essential self in her deceased husband? It was his essential self that she planned to be reunited with in the afterlife! Justin seems compassionate. He listens to me, he prays, he reads the Psalms. And he just spent a year in a Catholic monastery. Still, my foot is heavy on the gas. An invisible string pulls me toward him, and a grief-stricken part of me holds up scissors to sever the cord before someone or something else does.
