Colder Weather

How long has it been? A week? A month? Maybe a year? I can’t remember the last time you talked to me. Yet here you are, an echo in my head refusing to let go of the pleasant memories we shared together. I can still see you sitting on the couch, curled up with the books you used to try and get me to read. I always told you I was too busy to sit and join you while I started up the car and started driving. Driving away from you.

I settle in and turn the engine over.

If I could start it all over, I would. I would change the way I walked out the door. I would stop to embrace you, to kiss you, instead of complaining about running late. I can still feel the softness of your lips against mine tasting faintly of strawberries and the spearmint toothpaste you insisted on using.

I lick my lips, relishing in the flavor while the streetlights pass overhead.

I reach out a hand to grasp the shifter, imagining it’s your hand. They were always so small and delicate in my own that were calloused over and bruised. You had this thing about you where, if you had my hand, you would always flip it over and start to trace the lines of my palms, drawing circles where the deeps cuts had scarred over. There’s the lingering, tingling sensation of your manicured nails floating up my arm until your hand found its place at the back of my head. Your fingers tangling themselves in my hair as you stroked and caressed the part of me that made me melt further into you.

I lean my head against the seat trying to scratch at that invisible itch.

You were never one with a perfect voice, but it never stopped you from singing in the shower or belting out to your favorite tunes that came on in the car. I always turned the music up for you. Not because I wanted you to stop, but because I wanted you to sing louder. I never thought it would be seen as insensitive or make you self-conscious. It should have been obvious when you always answered the gesture with your silence.

I change the station on the radio and let out a sigh as it fills my ears with our song.

Your soaps and your perfumes were always intoxicating to me. My lungs would burn in the strength of your scent wile it tickled in the back of my nose. I could breathe you in for hours, letting my body relax into you. My muscles unclenching while my nose finds itself bombarded by the aroma of lemon and roses. Oh, to burry my nose in your dark red hair and take in that so faint assault of watermelon from the color preserving shampoos that always burned a hole in my wallet.

I replace the air freshener every week to hopefully fill the cab with your scent.

I still see you when I get home. You’re right there sitting on the couch, or dancing and singing in the kitchen, or lying in our bed. I find myself reaching across the silk sheets, trying to lay a hand on you, only to find that you’re no longer there. I can see the cold and empty place where you used to rest your head before kissing me and telling me you loved me as you drifted off to sleep. So soundly would you do so with your hair cascading over your lidded eyes. I would reach out and brush them from your face to find you smiling at my touch.

I switch on the wipers to clear the snow and better see the road I always took to get to you.

The blizzard is coming down all around me as I struggle to see the lines in the road. Any tracks left by the vehicles before me have been covered in a fresh layer of white powder. As fast as the wipers swish back and forth across the windshield, it doesn’t help me but to see a few feet in front of the hood. I need to turn around and go home, but I want to see you. I know that I need to take it slow, but I’m craving you. I press harder on the gas pedal as the moonlight sneaks glances through small breaks in the clouds, hoping I can make Denver before the sunrise so we can watch it together.

I feel the slip as the drive of all four wheel loses traction on the pavement. The trees whip around me as my truck spins. I alter frantically with both the brake and the gas while I desperately force the wheel in both directions, but nothing can counter the deadly centrifugal force that has taken over. It pins me to the seat and I realize that there is nothing I can do to stop it. I let go of the wheel and, on instinct, reach for your hand in the passenger side but am only met with the air of your empty seat. The trunks of the trees are closer now, and I know this is it. I’ve let you down again. I have just enough left to tell you that I love you, and I’m sorry. My vision is all wood, metal, and broken glass before it is enveloped in a blinding darkness.