The distracted playlist run
suppressed in the background while the worn and battered tires grunt in every stifled gait. The girl
pressed the oversize colored pillow too tightly, pretending calmness. Too
trying-hard-calm, she tried singing words out of songs she can never remember. She
ended up mumbling, humming, and after many more frustrated hums, retire to
silence again.
The man, focused perhaps to the thin shards of yellow lights he casts out to the dark distance, was stoic. He yawns from time to time. He leans forward and back, then forward again. He whisper in soft nervous jest, let there not be rain or this would be disaster.
It could have been a disaster. From a distance, the sky is warning thunder. The deep black ceiling is spilling out white flashes. On the left shoulder of the road were towering mass of eroded soil. On the right, racing piles of trees and bushes hinged to the slope of invisible crooked ravine. It took hours to catch company; most of the time a billowing truck, loaded with coconuts, if not concrete blocks or mixed construction blinds.
Are we there yet? The man asked the girl.
Close. Almost. She lied.
It was one night in a silent September, along a road very much less, if at all, traveled. A couple sits tall behind a wheel with nothing but stone guts and a digital compass map.
Six months later, they are on a road again. Not exactly the same road they once were, but in nearly the same danger and darkness they were back then. They carry with them the same guts, but not one map to point them the right way.
There were turns that should have not been taken, but they took just the same. The girl had been counting road signs: silver, red, Danger signs. Blinking all out on her until she could no longer see any farther.
Are we there yet? The man would ask her.
The answer though was never as easy.
Unlike then, she could no longer lie to him.
Will we, ever? She is certain to say.
***
3/25/2016
12:39PM
The man, focused perhaps to the thin shards of yellow lights he casts out to the dark distance, was stoic. He yawns from time to time. He leans forward and back, then forward again. He whisper in soft nervous jest, let there not be rain or this would be disaster.
It could have been a disaster. From a distance, the sky is warning thunder. The deep black ceiling is spilling out white flashes. On the left shoulder of the road were towering mass of eroded soil. On the right, racing piles of trees and bushes hinged to the slope of invisible crooked ravine. It took hours to catch company; most of the time a billowing truck, loaded with coconuts, if not concrete blocks or mixed construction blinds.
Are we there yet? The man asked the girl.
Close. Almost. She lied.
It was one night in a silent September, along a road very much less, if at all, traveled. A couple sits tall behind a wheel with nothing but stone guts and a digital compass map.
Six months later, they are on a road again. Not exactly the same road they once were, but in nearly the same danger and darkness they were back then. They carry with them the same guts, but not one map to point them the right way.
There were turns that should have not been taken, but they took just the same. The girl had been counting road signs: silver, red, Danger signs. Blinking all out on her until she could no longer see any farther.
Are we there yet? The man would ask her.
The answer though was never as easy.
Unlike then, she could no longer lie to him.
Will we, ever? She is certain to say.
***
3/25/2016
12:39PM
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