From a Window

Diane and I drove at night. The light from the shop windows and lit signs illuminated the interior and let me see her reflection, her glow. I didn’t know what to say anymore, we had lost so much and the drive seemed to be the last thing that held us together.

I couldn’t say when, but Diane had left me. Her world slipped away and she went with it. She began driving at night. As if to escape our domesticity by driving through the illusion buried in the urban sprawl of Los Angeles. Our apartment grayed, and she maintained her ritual. I continually failed to reach her, neither my words nor my touch opened her to me again. Her vacancy was pulling me down, and I could not undo its curse. If I had done this, I did not know how.

The apartment became a reminder of this ailing relationship. I began following her to the car, getting in the passenger seat silently. This continued for days, until she would finally have to break away from me. We turned down 2nd street and went through a tiled tunnel. The taillights of the cars in front of us stained the tiles to a flickering red. Her eyes were heavy as she said, “I have to leave, and you can’t come with me…” We had grown so far apart and yet I needed her. Her presence meant that everything would be all right. But it wasn’t all right, and as much as I tried to fight it found myself thinking of the possibilities with Diane. She was all I had now. Since the day I saw her, I felt foolish and I felt love.

Diane drove home slowly. We were silent the whole way. When she took the keys out of the ignition and creaked her door open, I broke down and cried.