Lewis’ suit was a size too small and a decade out of style.
He didn’t like the way it strangled his arms
and bunched up in all kinds of unfortunate places.

But when you set out to do something,
you religiously commit to the middle.

You do this the same way you dream
about the beginning and the end while the music plays
and the bartender refills your drink without asking
like a guardian angel who’s memorized your case history.

He always prided himself
a man who swears by his convictions
and his ability to cut and run,
cut and run,
cut and run
and never get sentimental about whatever’s left behind.

His wife always thought it was hysterical.
She also laughed at kids playing sports
and anyone who had suddenly taken up faith
and didn’t want to leave the house ever again.

He never liked her sense of humor.
It always led to something he had to apologize for
to complete strangers and old friends looking
for any excuse to sell his ass up the river.

He didn’t like the way she slept on her back.
He didn’t like the way she had taken
to setting little fires all around the property.
He didn’t like the way she would start crying
when the money was good and no one had died.

He didn’t like the way she had been fucking Lewis
ever since he started driving for them a year ago.

Trying to remember when he suspected them,
he realized that he worked the memory out of circulation.
Burned the photographs that showed them
going into and coming out of The Red City Hotel
every Monday and Thursday afternoon.

In fact,
and this occurred to him
as he passed the Illinois state line,
he found his mind failing him for the first time in his life.

All kinds of recollections and decades
were either gone or en-route to meet the ritual halfway.

Too much excitement, he reasoned.
Too much confidence in matters of the heart.

He glared at the way Lewis’ suit made him feel
and checked on them in the rearview mirror.

He thought the hat looked good on him,
and he liked the way the two of them looked
all quiet and reflective about the weather.

Their eyes were going to stay open,
come hell or middle-ground water,
and their hands met at the halfway point.

Cold fingers faking a willingness to be warm.

He focused on the road again,
starving to death but determined
not to stop unless the car needed gas.

They were at least six or seven states away from home.

He liked that.
He liked not knowing.

01/30/2010

Posted on 01/30/2010
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard