Sunday Drive

Every time you waste a moment, you waste make believe...

Your hands were always cold.

 

                As your fingers twined with mine in a cool, fluid motion, I stared ahead at the blinking lights on the dashboard of the jeep. The rain made a drumming sound on the sunroof, bouncing off the side of the car like tiny, shining pebbles. Knick-knock-knock. I listened to them carefully, ignoring you. The window stung cold against my cheek. We never used to go out for Sunday drives.

                We reached the park just after two, in the height of the storm. The wind was moving the carousel in an endless, lonely circle. Steam rose lazily from the metallic face of the old slide; in the fog, I was left to only imagine the fading imprints of laughing children playing tag among the playground equipment. You got out of the car, and said, “Come on.”

                Under the peeling shelter of the picnic tent, we sat, silent. Your eyes spread out over the drenched landscape, and I knew you were remembering something big. Shivering, I wanted to step into whatever memory had got you so troubled, to warm myself in the sunlight of different days. I never expected you to cry, but then, you never did fit into any of my lists. I held you, and meant it, until your hand crept up my skirt and I put the distance back into my eyes. The wind whipped flecks of dirty water from the tin roof onto my thighs, and I said that I wanted to leave. You said you used to come to this park with your brother and father, but then, they left, too.

                We mushed through the rain, back to the car and the heater, where you kissed me, like the first time. Your breath always tasted like that damned mint gum, the kind whose wrapper I would always find when I let your pockets warm my hands on winter days. And then I never put my hands in your pockets anymore, and they were cold, like yours. Every time I smell mint these days, I think of you and that damn gum. The scent of it socks me in the gut, or maybe, someplace deeper, I don’t know.

                On the way home, we stopped along an abandoned stretch of highway outside the city to make love in the back seat. I cried and pretended I had hit my head on the door, but I didn’t, and I think you knew. I could never really see it as making love when it was frantic, and the commitment, or maybe the lack thereof, frightened me. I knew it was wrong, I…just couldn’t say. We drove home in the hush of the rain, my face and your hands and my hands all cold and wandering.

                That was the day you told me that you loved me, on my back porch, after I said goodbye and pushed you out the door. It wasn’t true, but after everything, at least it was nice to hear. Still, in all your swearing of fidelity, and your love and tears and promises, I just kept thinking…why? We never used to go on Sunday drives.

                I can’t see you anymore, now, without thinking of that day. And I’m never really sure if it’s you or me that I start to miss, but when I see you, like when I catch that scent, I feel something. If I could explain it, I guess the best word would be…cold.

Reviews

[Aisha]

Wow. This is really good, especially the beginning. I'm not entirely clear on what's going on with the couple, but it's in a good way. You don't waste words explaining things; instead, you show how they are now. You have an amazing writing style that just sucks you into the story entirely and doesn't let you go until the very last word.
Please, please, please keep writing. You're a very talented author.

[Laughing-Bear]

My Dear Writing Friend,
Your write made me ponder for days. I thought how sad it was, it seemed like a slice of time that was wasted energy, a drying up of your soul. Your description of the storm was excellent, you put the reader there with you as they could hear, feel, and see the jeep, the park, the coldness of souls and day.
I mused, and this came to my forefront thoughts. Honesty, openness, commitment, acceptance, and tenderness are the pillars of lasting friendship. Those we need and seek. I hope you find these and with them all the beautiful and lovely things life can hold.

Blessings, Laughing-Bear

[W.k.kortas]

There is, in this hack's view, a bit of the problem with Cinderella here. There is something of the set-up of the fairy tale and happily-ever-after here: the playground, the running through the raindrops, the declaration of love. The elements are here, but you've made it apparent that things are not going to proceed as expected; the playground is (apparently) a place of abandonment, there's no Gene Kelly-esque embrace of the rain, the romance devolves into hurried, unromantic sex, and the swearing of eternal devotion just isn't true. It's all nicely built, and nicely executed. My only complaint, if that, is that there is something even bigger and better here, something that could rise to the level of masterpiece, and I think you have the ability to write it.