In Rearview

At the light, in the soupy early evening haze of the last day of September, you stare straight ahead while speaking at her. She sits stoicly, blinking evenly in the passenger’s seat, her hands out of sight, her lips slick wet. You push together words you form on spot, without thought, and she rolls her eyes in time with her tongue. At you.

Your lazy jokes don’t change what you said. You speak with authority and abandon, unaware of the weight you toss about with your throat. She finds you detestable, with your pea-stink denim jacket and your too-long, natty red hair.

She finds a swingset in her peripheral and focuses hard. The swings are dusty and bare, and she wonders when it got too cold. She stopped wearing any jewlery over a year ago, you said it hid her shine, and she wishes desperately for a ring or a bracelet to fondle. Instead of that zipper of your stiff, old hoodie.

You think about yesterday. And how it was pretty much the same. You think about the first time, how you hurt her, and how on that day you sort of made her.

She sits beside you, not struggling, not screaming, not feeling. Just silently, finally, deciding to go.

And you stare, still, straight ahead.