You're driving up a mountain road. He's at the wheel, a hand on your thigh, a cigarette held between his teeth. You're barefoot, legs propped up on the dashboard, window down to let the wind ravage your hair. He's wearing aviators. You push your glasses into your hair to draw back the bangs. Sunlight washes the windshield in glory; this is where you will always be. These front seats are a throne room, this highway a kingdom; you click your lighter as he shifts gears.
To your right you see vertical cliffs, the greenery crawling up, roots intrusive. He rubs his cigarette out on an improvised ashtray and asks you to pass something in a bottle. You oblige and mention literature in passing. He responds in according proficiency, quoting someone who was famous twenty years ago. You nod. His music is drowned out by the sound of the wind whirring past. He doesn't turn the volume up.
You can feel the weight of your bags in the backseat -- your mother asking you if you've eaten, if you're happy. You say yes with soft peace; you hold his hand, take a deep breath. I'm happy, you say. She smiles, and this is all you get before she's gone and it's just things rustling in padded canvas. When she gets home she will find the letter and you hope she doesn't cry - it begins and ends with I love you.
You fidget; you worry but refuse to ask him again. You'd gone over it so many times. You're going up to Baguio for a small retreat. You said it wasn't necessary but he insisted: I want to do this for you, and then he kissed you and kissed you and kissed you and you had sex again for the second time that night. "I don't want to lose you like I have lost those before you." and it sounds almost promisory. He said he wanted to write, to be alone, to be with you. Isn't this what you wanted?
You imagine your life in three years -- a child cradled to your chest, head tucked under your chin, soft as water. You hold her with all tenderness and rock her to sleep. He comes in from the kitchen with your coffee in hand. He tells you he's tired, tells you about work, looks at the miracle you're holding and smiles. You hand him his daughter; her cheek resting on the tattoo on his shoulder. You want to sleep, you want to cry, you want to make them happy. You imagine him coming home late at night when he's half-drunk on something you can smell from the doorway. Is there someone else. Who were you with. What were you doing. We have a child. I left everything behind. He says, "You're too young to understand," and you throw a plate at him. He ducks and shouts profanities. The baby cries. You shout. Soon everyone's in tears. This happens for three months and you're almost sure you're going to lose your mind; but in the morning he makes you breakfast, and feeds your daughter, and says he loves you and it rings like church bells from underground steeples.
You look out the window again and place your glasses on your lap. You run your fingers through your hair with your right hand. You take a swig from a flask in the glove compartment from two nights ago; he laughs. You take another sip for the prosperity of romance, another for the promise of adventure. You put it back and flash a smile, hoping there was a flaw in the design, something you missed, something unaccounted for; and that this man in the driver's seat will spend your youth well; and that in ten years, there will be more to this than ashes.
You fidget; you worry but refuse to ask him again. You'd gone over it so many times. You're going up to Baguio for a small retreat. You said it wasn't necessary but he insisted: I want to do this for you, and then he kissed you and kissed you and kissed you and you had sex again for the second time that night. "I don't want to lose you like I have lost those before you." and it sounds almost promisory. He said he wanted to write, to be alone, to be with you. Isn't this what you wanted?
You imagine your life in three years -- a child cradled to your chest, head tucked under your chin, soft as water. You hold her with all tenderness and rock her to sleep. He comes in from the kitchen with your coffee in hand. He tells you he's tired, tells you about work, looks at the miracle you're holding and smiles. You hand him his daughter; her cheek resting on the tattoo on his shoulder. You want to sleep, you want to cry, you want to make them happy. You imagine him coming home late at night when he's half-drunk on something you can smell from the doorway. Is there someone else. Who were you with. What were you doing. We have a child. I left everything behind. He says, "You're too young to understand," and you throw a plate at him. He ducks and shouts profanities. The baby cries. You shout. Soon everyone's in tears. This happens for three months and you're almost sure you're going to lose your mind; but in the morning he makes you breakfast, and feeds your daughter, and says he loves you and it rings like church bells from underground steeples.
You look out the window again and place your glasses on your lap. You run your fingers through your hair with your right hand. You take a swig from a flask in the glove compartment from two nights ago; he laughs. You take another sip for the prosperity of romance, another for the promise of adventure. You put it back and flash a smile, hoping there was a flaw in the design, something you missed, something unaccounted for; and that this man in the driver's seat will spend your youth well; and that in ten years, there will be more to this than ashes.
