All the Same
He always misses the one light. There is a lot going on, commerce and
foot traffic. She swears and pushes her hand against the windshield as
he skids to a stop.
"I should have driven," she says.
"You always drive. How will I ever improve?" he says.
Their city is new to them. Their neighbors look like a slightly
different breed. The people wear their hair and pant legs a little off.
They use words in conversation in ways that feel inaccurate.
"We should have sex today," she says, thinking of socks and leg
"Today? OK," he answers.
She is the kind of person who never likes to be surprised. Tell me
everything all at once, she would say. Once it's all out there, at
least I will know. And it helps to prepare for the sex, to commit to it
The reason he is not the best driver is that streets are all the same
to him; nothing is very specific. The big box stores, the logos
flashing. He once told her for lemons he would leave the house and
drive in a direction at random hoping eventually he would find the
grocery, a grocery, there are groceries everywhere. That tender feeling
inside of him is the only way he will find them.
w i g · l e a F