Fair

It’s the drive home.

You’re not anywhere near her. She is in a car that is driving past open farmland under a sky smeared in pink and orange. From the window of your bedroom it only looks light blue.

The energy dispelled on the sun-filled day has dispersed into the atmosphere of the car she is in, leaving a thick, honeyed silence. You think about going downstairs for something to eat.

She resists the urge to break a silence she is enjoying, and knows she will remember this moment for a long time. You didn’t think the summer would come this quickly, or this cleanly.

You feel so heavily how she is saving you every day of your life, and keep hoping she will stop. Until then, your only hope is an end. In that end only can you find the freedom you know she holds for you. In that end only can the debt be reconciled.

She wants the person in the front seat to pin her down on a picnic blanket and show her the years of hunger. She wants his lips on her neck. She hasn’t stopped thinking about you for two years.

You slide off your bed, shut the window, and go downstairs. The game starts in a few minutes. 

She is acutely aware that, tonight at least, her car is driving off into the sunset,

And yours is staying in the driveway.