in the diner
This is a story about the diner with the clock and the woman in the booth in the window. She is writing a story, but that is not this story. That story is about a man who does not love a woman back and, though this story resembles hers, This story is about the woman and the woman’s story is about the man. This woman, our woman, writes to process the things that have happened to her. Her woman, That woman, the woman in her story, does not write. That man, the man in her story, is handsome and smart and does not want to be loving, though at times That woman knew he was capable of it and felt it in the way he looked at her or handed her flowers or made her coffee. This story has no man, just a waiter at the diner with the clock, but he is an underwritten character who pours coffee and brings This woman her fries. This woman cries as she writes about That man, describing his eyes or the way his voice sounded. This waiter, This man, wants to ask if she is okay, but he has no dialogue in this story. Instead, he watches her and refills her mug, though it is late at night and she should probably get to sleep soon. This woman does not sleep, That man does not sleep, in that story, because she hasn’t written it in. She has only written the things that That woman would remember, memories that, if That woman, the woman in her story, ever wrote, she would want to write down. This woman, the woman in This story, has not decided on a plot. No, her story is a series of vignettes about That man, and she hopes some direction will reveal itself. It has not, but she still writes, and drinks the coffee This man, the waiter, pours for her, writing about That man’s hands on a mug. It is late into the night but she is wide awake, with no intention of ever feeling otherwise. She is writing about That man’s adventures at a similar hour, when he went very far away, while That woman, the woman in her story, slept.
highway
He is driving the car at very fast speeds and she knows she can do a better job. I can do a better job, she tells him, and urges him to pull over so they can switch places. Neither of them wanted to be where they are driving from, so they were happy to be leaving, but not happy to be driving together. They do not want to breathe the same stale air, or listen to pop songs on the radio. She wants to be driving.
You can’t even feed the damn dog, he says, which is true.
I can still drive. Those are different things, she says, and he believes her, but not enough to give up his firm grip on the wheel. They zoom forwards.
Just let me handle this, he insists.
I want to go home, she says.
That is only to feed the dog. You hate it at home, he tells her, which is also true.
I would still like to get there, she says, so he speeds up. She opens a window, and the clean air hits her face as she squints ahead. His hands grip the wheel as if to say: look what I have that you don’t. The music is too loud, or not loud enough, or maybe the song is bad. The bridge approaches, cars dashing each way.
He makes a sharp movement and drives the car into the river. She knows she could have done a better job at this, too.