There is a rhythm on the road...a cadence...like breathing but perhaps with a little more agitation. More pulse...depending on your speed which of course at hers was enough to buckle seat belts and settle in.
Which was ironic when listening to Chris Botti's "Slowing down the world" with the sound of his trumpet echoing in the car, just a little louder above the din of the tires and the trucks.
At this point though it was his drive...his speed and his cockpit taking in the tumbling hillsides and gray freeways...she was smeared on his mind in a way that reminded him of a slight cling...perhaps the way windchimes work...quiet until a breeze disturbs them and then they awaken sonorously and produce a pleasing note or two. But it takes a wind to create...for now she was upon his mind like a quiet candle.
So he drove.
The songs played and his thumbs kept beat...a steady thump...the car aching to unleash its full power but traffic and trucks had other ideas...he maneuvered and tried to keep a steady pace...but he was fine with it all. He listened to the music, felt his foot on the accelerator keeping him connected and watched the set of hills start to rise in front of him.
But of course as all things in the mind there is a cavitation...an implosion. A song comes on and the curtains are pulled back and exposed. For him it was the "wee small hours of the morning"...sung by Sting. Background trumpet with Botti.
He was reminded of her shape in the dark...her outline...her geography.
He knew inches and portions, delicacies and familiarities. Every bit.
And in the echo of the song he felt her absence like a stab...somewhere on him. Nowhere particular, just visceral. Like a passerby had glanced upon him and then fled.
Despite the daylight he remembered dark eyes in a deeper blackened room...unblinking. And as he watched the remaining song timer wind down he remembered the scarcity of her. The rareness of their time...always a countdown of departure...hours, minutes. Never a day. Nothing could ever be for a day.
The hillside was growing lush, the almost-middle of spring...mountains were flourishing with leaves of green and the stray wildflowers along the highway were in full thrush. He motored by them, hoping to speed wherever he was going...almost hoping to forget the left-behind.
She crept into his mind like the way she crept into bed...a slow, graceful alignment, her cool torso sliding across cool sheets to him, his warmth always a thing between them, with her wrapping herself from the top of his shoulders to their legs and finally her feet rubbing against him...she was always cooler, seeking his heat.
Until her mouth connected with his and then like lights turning on a timer the warmth cascaded.
He remembered this as he drove...stirring a warmth in him that is a memory-pluck...it isn't just a sensation but rather a reaction...atoms-splitting...whatever...his brain was now a leak of her beside him, spilling all over and drowning his emotions with a staggering amount of her.
He passed an exit...decided to stop for gas. Feeling like he needed to breath in the air that perhaps she had been breathing a bit ago.
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