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A drive along the 47th parallel
Frank T. Sikora
“You’re a cruel woman,” he said as he brought the Honda to a stop. The tires squealed as they grappled with the dirt. He took a deep breath, released the steering wheel, and drained the last of his water bottle. He couldn’t drink enough to keep his lips moist. The air conditioner had died more than a thousand miles before: For two days nothing but clear skies and temperatures between 97 and 103. He felt as if he had driven across a grill. “I accept everything about you: your moral detours, your boyish tits, and those three kids; two of whom are category five monsters. And now you’re leaving? One bad weekend and you’re gone?”
She looked past him and down the road. No traffic had passed or approached for an hour. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But, you broke your promise.”
He unlocked her door. The electronics of the car pleased him. Next, he lowered her window, teasingly, like a slow grind. “Get out.”
“Out?”
“Yes. You want out of the relationship. You’re out.”
“Now? We’re a...”
“...long way from home.” He unlocked her seat belt, and tossed the belts aside. “Bye bye my sweetie pie,” he added in baby talk, knowing how much she hated it. He watched her turn away from him. She smoothed her dress—a 300-dollar dress. She makes $16,000 a year. Lord.
“You’re being unreasonable,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “You’ve gone too far.”
He laughed and gave her the ‘look,’ the glimpse into the rage he harbored. He often joked he kept his basement empty of furniture because he needed the space to store his rage. In the beginning, she found this amusing. It’s still a damn good line. He thought.
“How am I going to get home?” She asked.
“And how am I going to get along without you? Two problems. Which appears more problematic?”
She looked to the north—brown parched hills for more than 500 miles. “If I get out, I may...” She opened the door.
“Yes,” he said, watching her exit, always drawn to her legs—thin and shapely. She wore black heels. They sunk deep into the dirt—the kind where things slither. He smiled.
She closed the door and crossed her arms.
He drew the window to a close and shifted into first gear. He left as swiftly as he had stopped, oil fumes spilling out behind him. He wanted to but he didn’t look back. To distract himself, he cranked the volume on the radio—backwoods hillbilly hits—loud enough to drown out the doubts.
After around 40 miles, he felt better. He stopped only for water and for gas. He loved driving—it was un-American not to.