...that.

 The longest red light I may have ever waited on. 

An intersection of a small road and a minor highway tracing the edge of a floundering nowhere town. 

The sun forced itself through the windshield and though I had the AC on high, anything not in the path of the air flow baked slowly under black denim and cotton. My jaw was sore and I could taste blood again. My eyes, even behind the thick, black sunglasses, ached like staring at a screen too long. I'd always been a bit sensitive to light, but it seemed to be getting worse over the years. 

A number of sentences had been rolling over endlessly in my mind all morning. Sitting behind the wheel, roasting in the sun. Staring at the possibly broken traffic light, on and on they rolled.

Years ago; People don't abandon you, James. They escape you.

Weeks ago; I needed to escape that.

I glanced into the rearview mirror and opened my mouth, looking for blood. Nothing. 

Finally, the light changed to green and I turned right, over a pothole, over a speed bump, onto the highway. Not pressing too hard I get up to 55 and just slide back into my body. My focus isn't necessary until the exit ramp. 

.

...that.

The word stuck out, and I had been picking at it for weeks. Fixating on it. The indefinince of it. Of what it represented. A situation? A feeling? A person? I couldn't let the word go, but the more I pulled at it, the more I dissected it, the less I understood it. I'm a person who doesn't understand clues or vagueries. I don't like signals, or cues, or hidden meanings. I need to be told, straight and clear, what things mean. What people mean. Because I will take whatever is said to me literally. I will hold the definitions of the words, the way they are strung together, as the truth. Otherwise, I am just left confused. 

And I couldn't understand the definition of that in its context.

The light thuds under the tires as the car cruised steadily over the patches and bumps in the road. The exit was approaching and I put that aside for a moment. The on-ramp was a tight circle, and I held the breaks, slowing to 30 or so, rounding the bend, eventually up and out onto the bridge I had just driven under. Cross one lane to the left. Wait for a small white truck to speed past. Cross one more lane to the left. Before I slide back to my body I notice again my jaw was sore. I could't taste blood anymore, and now I drove at an angle that defeated the direct sun. Small victories.

that that that that that

Is the issue that I do understand it? That I'm rejecting it? Or am I catastrophizing again? Can I know? is there a way to know? What if I

"Jesus fucking christ," I say to no one, turning the corner off of the highway and into my neighborhood. Close my eyes for a second to collect myself. Remember I'm driving. Open them. 

I need a drink. 

More than a fucking drink, dude. You need a gun.

I need a gun.

"Shut the fuck up," I say. 

The car moves steadily and warmly up the steep hill to my house. Kids on the sidewalk with a hula hoop watch as I pass. One of them waves and I wave back. Crest the hill and turn onto my street.

that that that

I pull up to my house, put it in park, turn the key. The engine shuts off and I sit for a moment. Now I can close my eyes. No neighborhood sounds. No wind. No cars. Just the vaccuum silence of the inside of my car. The same image in front of my eyes that's been there for a little too long now. Burnt into my retinas. Eating away at my brain. Open my eyes, open the door. Unbuckle, grab my phone and my water bottle, and head inside. 

that that that

It's always fuckin' something.