Back to Here

Heading back to B-town in the purple Corolla. The "a" is still missing from the car's title on the trunk. There's a compartment in the dashboard that won't stay closed, even with the application of some withered scotch tape. This is new. So is the way she bites me in bed. I'm not sure what I'm more impressed by: how much she's changed, or how much she's stayed the same.

It's probably best if I don't pursue such trains of thought. Even still, she's here next to me, disturbingly quiet after a long weekend, gripping the wheel with a robotic persistence. We are children reconvening in the same sandbox only this time with new toys, new clothes, and a new sense of self. Everything feels right-ish and I can deal with the changes. It's just hard to ignore the obvious awkwardness of it all.

We dart up 22A. It is a sullen drive and it's difficult to place the cause. Perhaps it's nothing, maybe I'm just trying too hard to label every moment in time. Cataloguing the ups and downs. Indexing the smiles, and cross-referencing the frowns with expressionless glances all in the name of dependence. Emotional security. Relational consistency.

And it all makes me so tired. So many things to look forward to, even more things to appreciate, but the one grey drop of doubt in my lake of emotions is enough to taint it all. Maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I need more death.

Maybe I need to lighten the fuck up. After all, she's going to leave me. Time to pony up. Again. For real this time.