Page 36 - Leftovers V2
P. 36
Mile Marker 19
As strains of Wagner weep from the dashboard, your eyes hypnotize me in the rearview mirror like two young boys licking their lips
over a sexual fantasy.
Hunkered down in the backseat,
I hug the musty blanket we shared last night as your rage gnaws at my throat
like a bitter aspirin refusing to go down.
Barely breaking the rhythm of the road,
the wheels suddenly bite gravel, then lift off. Tumbling airborne in slow motion,
the air between us finally clears.
Will one of us survive
to blame the six-point buck?
