On A Sunday Evening
Your hands clutch the steering wheel, drenched in amber of the passing, falling sun. You’re telling me that you want the windows up even though it’s stuffy inside and humid. Up ahead, the road tips. A flock of crows flutter off from a nearby tree. You raise a hand at a car as it overtakes you. You don’t notice the birds, nor the song as it moves onto the next. You say: I’m not in love with you anymore. It’s sudden. Just as you put your hand down. A matter-of-fact. A passing phrase. I blink, and you’ve moved on. You make sure to mention that you hate this song. It’s more out of habit than it is an opinion. The same way you reach for my hand over the gear shift. You don’t make a move to skip it. It’s on my liked list. Your fingers. This is not a cause-and-effect kind of statement, although you always think it is. You take it as an accusation. You furrow your already knotted eyebrows: I am not obligated to like it, okay? We can be different sometimes. It’s just repetitive, depressing, pop shit, and I can’t stand it. I tell you: I get it. Don’t listen to it then. But you’re being a gentleman now that the truth has sliced down on my neck. So we sit in it. The blood. It puddles in the rut-tut-tut beat, on my lap. I raise the volume until the car shakes. Your lips twitch in irritation. But you know better than to speak. Birds fly without you noticing. You stick a middle finger at a passing car that’s going too slow. You press the accelerator and our car croaks, trying to catch up. You think you’re a great communicator; it’s what I love about you. Loved about you. We lurch forward. I never noticed how aggressive a driver you are; it’s always bothered me. You don’t know how to communicate your guilt. If I tell you to slow down, something in the car will burst. Your anger doesn’t make you a bad person because, on the whole, you loved me. Right? I keep quiet. I clasp my hands together. I wonder when the tether snapped for you. Was it last Thursday when I scrutinized your dish-cleaning skills? Was it when you kissed me last night? Or when you came inside of me, and who was it that moaned: I love you, I love you, I love you. Night settles on my side of the car. You’re still evening. Drenched in orange in your car seat. You tell me: it wasn’t a sudden decision, although it might feel like that. It does feel like that, but what is there really to say? You were a good run. I wish you the best. I turn my head. The grocery bags sit limply in the back seat. We forgot to buy dish soap. The thought travels to me now, almost lazily. I think of the milk, which might be secretly spoiling inside its little cardboard box from being left inside the car for so long. I was supposed to make Alfredo chicken today. What will I make now that everything has spoiled? Where am I supposed to go? The fields look dark and gloomy on my side of the horizon. I drag the windows down, so wind catches tendrils of your hair and flops them into your eyes. I ask you: who is she? You don’t reply, but you squint the way that you always do when you feel a little too exposed. You never confess or admit whether it’s true, only that: we’ve been drifting apart for years now. We both saw this coming. Never formed as a question, only as a fact: You felt this way, too. Of course, I agree. The sun burns and darkens. You make quick reparations: I’ll handle dinner and the bags. Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got it.
Inspired by this song:
Heartbreaking!