I woke up in a pool of drool, with my face pressed into the rough and unwashed carpet. I sat up and stretched my aching back. I threw my arms up into the air and let out a loud groan. I looked around my completely empty apartment. Then it struck me: today was the day I could finally say goodbye to her and move on with my life.
Living without Miriam had been hard for me. She never gave anything back in our relationship, whether it was physical or emotional. To be fair, I hadn’t been the kindest to her, and it remained a mystery how we had stayed together for so long.
I shuffled out the door and flung my bag over my shoulder. I slammed the door and hastily unzipped my bag to retrieve my keys. The two keys that I did have were exactly identical, so I chose one of them and shoved it into the keyhole. I twisted it to no avail. I swapped keys and finally locked the door.
I ran down the walkway to get to the parking lot, and unlocked my car . . . with the wrong key. “Darn it,” I muttered under my breath, trying not to draw any attention from my neighbors, who were loading a stubborn toddler into the back seat of their minivan. I traded keys once again and hopped into the driver’s seat. I pulled out of the parking space quickly, shooting gravel out from under my tires. The neighbors gave me an exhausted glance, but I didn’t care. I didn’t have enough time to worry about what anyone else thought about me.
I shot down our town’s wide roads, and even ran a red light — whoops. I navigated through the maze of her neighborhood’s unsymmetrical streets, and turned on her friend’s street — where she was staying. I swooped into an empty spot directly in front of the house. I pushed the center of my steering wheel three times to call to her.
Her door creaked open, and she took a few steps onto her front porch. She and her friend exchanged goodbyes. She took as much time as she wanted with every step, and the path from the house seemed unending. She was towing a pretty large suitcase behind her. Out of frustration, I rolled down my window and shouted to her, “hurry it up!” The request was not considered, so in response, I honked. She stopped, stared at me, and shook her head in disappointment.
“You’re exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds late!” she called out to me.
“Take off the three minutes that it took you to get from your house to my car!” I retorted.
She sighed and opened the door. “Do you know how awfully dirty your car is?”
I didn’t respond.
“Did you sleep in those clothes?” she asked.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, “and on the way there, let’s play the quiet game!”
She sat back in her seat and remained quiet. We drove in silence for quite a while, as we traveled along the isolated roads of Nevada. The air was cold and dry, but that was to be expected around there. I rounded a corner and said softly, “your bus stop is coming up.”
“I won,” she said excitedly.
“What?” I responded, confused.
“I won the quiet game,” she clarified.
We returned to silence as we approached the bus stop. No matter how terrible we had been to each other, I thought I was going to miss her. We were finally parting ways with each other. It was something I wouldn’t have believed two years ago. It is something I’m still not believing now.
“Frans,” she said, “I love you.”
I took my eyes off the road and stared directly into hers. “You — you — what?” I stuttered. She’d never even come close to saying those words in the last few years. In fact, it was more the opposite.
“I really am going to miss you —” she whispered.
I was going eighty miles per hour when I ran off the road and into a ditch. I was only 320 feet away from the bus stop. My head slammed against the airbags and my vision went fuzzy.
“Miriam . . .” I muttered, “Miriam . . . darn it . . .” I was enveloped and swallowed by the darkness.
I awoke to the monotonous sound of the car alarm. I flipped onto my side and tried to see if Miriam was still there, hanging on with me. But she wasn’t. Her seat was empty. Her luggage was gone. Her comfort was absent. I cracked my door and set my feet gently onto the dry, dusty ground. The sun was blinding and the desert was devoid of sound.
Miriam seemed to have gotten on her bus, having walked away from the crash completely. Whatever sympathy and feelings of kindness she’d had for me were gone.
I sat on the curb and tilted my head toward the sky. I sat on the curb and stared at all of those invisible stars, hidden by the light and the clouds. I couldn’t see them, but they were still there.
Living without Miriam had been hard for me. She never gave anything back in our relationship, whether it was physical or emotional. To be fair, I hadn’t been the kindest to her, and it remained a mystery how we had stayed together for so long.
I shuffled out the door and flung my bag over my shoulder. I slammed the door and hastily unzipped my bag to retrieve my keys. The two keys that I did have were exactly identical, so I chose one of them and shoved it into the keyhole. I twisted it to no avail. I swapped keys and finally locked the door.
I ran down the walkway to get to the parking lot, and unlocked my car . . . with the wrong key. “Darn it,” I muttered under my breath, trying not to draw any attention from my neighbors, who were loading a stubborn toddler into the back seat of their minivan. I traded keys once again and hopped into the driver’s seat. I pulled out of the parking space quickly, shooting gravel out from under my tires. The neighbors gave me an exhausted glance, but I didn’t care. I didn’t have enough time to worry about what anyone else thought about me.
I shot down our town’s wide roads, and even ran a red light — whoops. I navigated through the maze of her neighborhood’s unsymmetrical streets, and turned on her friend’s street — where she was staying. I swooped into an empty spot directly in front of the house. I pushed the center of my steering wheel three times to call to her.
Her door creaked open, and she took a few steps onto her front porch. She and her friend exchanged goodbyes. She took as much time as she wanted with every step, and the path from the house seemed unending. She was towing a pretty large suitcase behind her. Out of frustration, I rolled down my window and shouted to her, “hurry it up!” The request was not considered, so in response, I honked. She stopped, stared at me, and shook her head in disappointment.
“You’re exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds late!” she called out to me.
“Take off the three minutes that it took you to get from your house to my car!” I retorted.
She sighed and opened the door. “Do you know how awfully dirty your car is?”
I didn’t respond.
“Did you sleep in those clothes?” she asked.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, “and on the way there, let’s play the quiet game!”
She sat back in her seat and remained quiet. We drove in silence for quite a while, as we traveled along the isolated roads of Nevada. The air was cold and dry, but that was to be expected around there. I rounded a corner and said softly, “your bus stop is coming up.”
“I won,” she said excitedly.
“What?” I responded, confused.
“I won the quiet game,” she clarified.
We returned to silence as we approached the bus stop. No matter how terrible we had been to each other, I thought I was going to miss her. We were finally parting ways with each other. It was something I wouldn’t have believed two years ago. It is something I’m still not believing now.
“Frans,” she said, “I love you.”
I took my eyes off the road and stared directly into hers. “You — you — what?” I stuttered. She’d never even come close to saying those words in the last few years. In fact, it was more the opposite.
“I really am going to miss you —” she whispered.
I was going eighty miles per hour when I ran off the road and into a ditch. I was only 320 feet away from the bus stop. My head slammed against the airbags and my vision went fuzzy.
“Miriam . . .” I muttered, “Miriam . . . darn it . . .” I was enveloped and swallowed by the darkness.
I awoke to the monotonous sound of the car alarm. I flipped onto my side and tried to see if Miriam was still there, hanging on with me. But she wasn’t. Her seat was empty. Her luggage was gone. Her comfort was absent. I cracked my door and set my feet gently onto the dry, dusty ground. The sun was blinding and the desert was devoid of sound.
Miriam seemed to have gotten on her bus, having walked away from the crash completely. Whatever sympathy and feelings of kindness she’d had for me were gone.
I sat on the curb and tilted my head toward the sky. I sat on the curb and stared at all of those invisible stars, hidden by the light and the clouds. I couldn’t see them, but they were still there.