I remember each exit we passed that sun-scorched afternoon. My hand on your thigh, your nails dug into my arm when I drove close to other cars. I pulled over, each hungry; the tree’s gracious shade; my reflection in your sunglasses, your screams and moans, nails in my back; a cool breeze cooled my scalp.
Her hands gripped the wheel in morning fog. The road ahead invisible, headlights faded fast in the rear-view. Taillights popped from the mist. Looking down for a CD, for coffee, for directions. The truck, stopped with lights off, broken down, still in the lane. Her neck snapped clean.
Road-weary from Oregon and waiting, wind blew rain in my face and a Bay chill reddened my nose, frosted my fuzz of hair. Time stolen to spend with a lover, with a friend. You on a commuter rail sending electronic messages. The endless stream of headlights, traffic from the city thick, center-line train rails sat dark. Your train three stops away. I paced and checked my phone, my watch, read the day’s headline fifty times. I turned and a woman turned away, bitten lip, smirk, not yet you.