She drives with wrists and it makes me nervous, all lackadaisical like we aren’t really moving like we aren’t really going anywhere. She plays hip hop at a volume that you can’t quite hear but could never ignore and talks over all of it about something that happened last week. Sometimes I can’t remember why I am here, when I fell in love with her, and why I stay. Sometimes it’s clear but sometimes like this time, it has been so long, that I can’t quite see my way back from where I came from, where we came from. So I am just here with her and she is here with me but we aren’t really here together. It’s a Tuesday morning and she loves to get tea from a coffee shop in Laguna Beach because neither of us work until late in the afternoon, so we go for the drive like some little religious ritual of our life together. My window is down drowning out all the mush of sounds and letting the ocean air come through and whip her hair into her face, but she doesn’t notice the way it tangles and hugs to her thin neck. She takes off her sunglasses for a moment and looks in the rear view mirror. She has dark circles under her eyes again and I wonder but don’t ask what, or who, has been been keeping her up all week. She is chewing on her lower lip and I sink further into my seat of her 97′ Carola. All this way for tea. It seems so fucking stupid today. How can it be that what was once the brightest part of my week could this week be such a death trap. She swerves a bit because she drifted into the oncoming traffic and I think for a brief second we may go straight off PCH and into the Pacific below, and then my next thought is, “this isn’t so bad.” She starts laughing madly and I try to see the girl I fell in love with, but she seems to have evaporated into the sea salt and I hardly recognize the girl next to me. I decide to watch the sea pass instead.
Published by Erin Rose Belair
I am multi-genre writer specializing in travel, ad-copy, and nonfiction prose. A recent graduate with my MFA I am spending my new found time rambling around the world, practicing yoga, and searching for the best salad ever. View all posts by Erin Rose Belair