It’s night on a gravel road—the dead-end sign lit up by headlights, so I throw that mother into reverse. The tires squeal as I hit pavement yanking the wheel to find another street. Every light is green so I accelerate—what else can I do?—racing to the next stop. When the light flashes yellow, I don’t slow down—time is short—I have to make it. I drive seven years straight. When the sun sets, the headlights from other cars blind so I look to the yellow line on the side of the road and follow it—an arrow pointing to the next house I will call home. When I enter, I know the place—black leather couch, dusty book shelves, kitchen counters lined with empty water bottles and I set to work—polish, wipe, recycle—a mindless charade. When he walks in the door, I call him the wrong name. Who could blame me? They all look the same. Another fight over the car keys—my arm left aching from his grasp—another chance to be in the driver’s seat. Back on the road, I brake at the stop sign, stare in my rearview, and head for the well-lit taxi stand at the airport. I hop in the cab, shout “drive” and he merges into traffic—just another pair of eyes shining into the night.
