December
Thursday 7 May 2009 photo 3/4
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The music blared with a calming frequency.
The speakers gently seeped the sounds of ambient keyboards and light percussion,
creating a seductive soundtrack to our midnight drive through curtains of blackness.
The windows were cold to the touch, reflecting the icy conditions in our immediate extremity.
Salt stains and fingerprints littered the glass, and streets with melted snow cascaded down its length.
The music pulsed louder, yet gentle, like the far away squeal of a pot of boiling water.
The skyline was glowing faintly with vague hints of an impending dawn.
The car raced along a painfully straight stretch of road,
and she hadn’t so much as turned the steering wheel two degrees in the last twenty minutes,
nor had we spoken.
“Why are you doing this?” she spoke as if not expecting a response.
Her voice penetrated the still air of our speechless drive, so suddenly that my heart had jumped.
“I’m not doing anything,” I said, but I didn’t even believe that myself.
“This is what’s best, for me, for you, for us." Or maybe just for me, I thought,
as a tear formed in the pit of her eye. The music poured through the speakers
and we were losing ourselves in the cadence. She looked down momentarily and closed her eyes
for a bit longer than a standard blink. Then she was crying. Then she was shouting.
Then I was shouting, now pouring confessions, having no answers, or solutions,
we barely even knew the questions.
Our cracking voices became part of the music.
The car pressed on faster through the night. As our voices lowered,
the cadence again overtook the air.
Up ahead there was a curve approaching.
She made no indications of slowing.
The music blared with a calming frequency.
The speakers gently seeped the sounds of ambient keyboards and light percussion,
creating a seductive soundtrack to our midnight drive through curtains of blackness.
The windows were cold to the touch, reflecting the icy conditions in our immediate extremity.
Salt stains and fingerprints littered the glass, and streets with melted snow cascaded down its length.
The music pulsed louder, yet gentle, like the far away squeal of a pot of boiling water.
The skyline was glowing faintly with vague hints of an impending dawn.
The car raced along a painfully straight stretch of road,
and she hadn’t so much as turned the steering wheel two degrees in the last twenty minutes,
nor had we spoken.
“Why are you doing this?” she spoke as if not expecting a response.
Her voice penetrated the still air of our speechless drive, so suddenly that my heart had jumped.
“I’m not doing anything,” I said, but I didn’t even believe that myself.
“This is what’s best, for me, for you, for us." Or maybe just for me, I thought,
as a tear formed in the pit of her eye. The music poured through the speakers
and we were losing ourselves in the cadence. She looked down momentarily and closed her eyes
for a bit longer than a standard blink. Then she was crying. Then she was shouting.
Then I was shouting, now pouring confessions, having no answers, or solutions,
we barely even knew the questions.
Our cracking voices became part of the music.
The car pressed on faster through the night. As our voices lowered,
the cadence again overtook the air.
Up ahead there was a curve approaching.
She made no indications of slowing.
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