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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume Four Issue One |
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We Are Learning to Be Silent Together — my fingers pinching the radio knob, the vents' hot blast and the window cracked, his headlight's narrow arc. He speeds because, six months in, he knows I like it. He wants to buy me frozen custard at the shop outside town. Phlegmatic with winter, I want his thick, chapped hands at ten and two. Gas petal velocity, a throatful of gelid air, the hollow screech the open window lets inside. The tempered glass slicks my slack-eyed image. My mousy hair shines. Beyond, snow falls like ash. In January, Indiana's wasteland — the umber soil raked hard and clean of crops, frosted in this nighttime hour. Clapton takes an FM wave. Even into the empty exit lane, we accelerate. He turns the wheel according to the ramp's clover shape, but too late — the car skips ice and doesn't slow. Our mouths open, noiseless Os. |
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