A Drive Home

I drove the interstate like I had a thousand times before. Shitfaced and introspective and hearing the music on the radio but not listening. Only peeling my eyelids open and sometimes literally and biting the insides of my cheeks to stay awake and punching the dashboard periodically because maybe that would help. Flashes of white bounced to the sides of my car and I knew all the landmarks. The billboards, the mile markers, the crooked trees, the rest stop. 

I remember being against drunk driving. I remember being against drinking. I remember understanding. 

I remember.

I had, over the summer, had another moment. Another screaming and unbearable urge to fly the fucking Corolla right off the bridge. Right into the water. Right into the black. 

I know everyone does. I know I am not alone. I know I am not unique, but the idea scared me and beyond that, I had only had one other of those moments. When we came back from that concert a few years back and I had smashed the car to shit and this time I hadn't. I hadn't because I knew I wouldn't walk away this time. I hadn't because this time I didn't see the point. I hadn't because this time I didn't have the balls. I kept thinking "don't let them think you were just high and fucked up". "Don't let them think you didn't mean it." "Don't let them reason."

Shitfaced and I knew I was listening to Mazzy Star. I pretended I didn't know why I kept listening to it. I didn't sing along but I let each note, each word, each reverbed snare bounce in my bones and my soft tissue and my hard soul and I thought "this is okay. This is okay."

I was nearing home. 

I should have kissed you.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That's what they say. 

Nothing ventured, nothing lost. 

I pulled off the interstate. My phone lit up and I ignored it.

Just trying to keep straight on the road.

I thought I saw you in traffic earlier in the day. I am sure I did. I hadn't heard from you, really heard from you, in weeks and thought that was strange and I thought maybe it was actually, finally, suffocatingly, the end.

I had given up sobriety. I had given up trying. I had given up writing and loving and understanding and hoping.

I pulled into the old driveway and turned the car off and wondered how many more times I would be able to. 

I went inside and answered the text and realized I was no one.