I turn my car out of the hotel lot, turning and pausing on
my way to the interstate.
Cars and trucks zoom past me, I squeeze in between them
before speeding up and flying past.
I left before dawn, the hotel room an empty memory of a
quick night spent along the freeway.
Mountains loom, then pass. Coffee is drank in slow gulps. I
put on music, sing along, mute it, turn it up again.
Bridges. Desserts. Trees, so many trees. The sun follows me
across the sky. I wolf an orange at a rest area, drink water while I consult
the atlas before turning my car west again.
The sun greets my face as I drive past the green signs
telling me how far away from home I really am.
Another hotel. Another plastic room key. Another dinner.
I tuck my feet underneath me. Pull out my computer. More
music. Then a movie, until I lose interest.
I check my phone.
nothing
In a few days I will be out of time.
In a few days I will turn my car east again and brave the
sun.
In a few days I will be back home, ready to go back to work.
I wonder. Will I send you pictures or a quick anecdote from
the road?
It doesn’t really matter.
I might not know it, but I’m already out of time.
I’ve been out of time since the morning I crawled out of
your bed and slipped to my car in the quiet morning air.
I see the thundering falls and stop to feel your arms around
me, your chin in my hair, watching the water with me.
I look out the passenger window and pause to picture you
sitting there.
I can see you in my car. Your pack in the trunk next to
mine. Your travel mug in the holder next to mine.
I can feel you in my bed. You slip an arm around my waist
and tuck me close to you, afraid to lose me in the night.
I’m already out of time. I realize it while I’m still facing
west. I realize it while I’m standing at the waterfall. I realize it when I’m
sitting on the bed checking my phone. I pull back into myself. It’s best not to
get too carried away. After all, I’m out of time.