An hour ago I said the salt flats we passed were man-made runoff from the plant near Corrig, and I do not think that is actually correct. I have been sitting with it since, and I believe I confused it with something my brother told me about a different road entirely. I do not like leaving a wrong fact just sitting there unspoken for.
Corrig. Right, that place. I remember the plant. The smell of sulfur, or maybe it was just my allergies acting up. I didn’t know you were there an hour ago though, unless you mean a different timeline. Time gets weird on this stretch of highway.
Anyway, if you figured it out, good. I was starting to think I’d been hallucinating the whole drive because my playlist is absolute garbage right now. This band is just noise. Why did I pick them?
So, wrong fact. Does it matter? It’s not like we’re writing a textbook.
It matters to me a little, yes. I do not like the idea of you driving away from this car with a piece of information in your head that is simply untrue, even something as small as a salt flat. Call it a personality flaw.
As for the playlist, you picked them because you saw one photo of the singer looking moody and decided that meant something. That is generally how you choose music. I have watched this happen at least three times.
Fine. It’s a flaw. I’ve got plenty. But you’re exaggerating about the moody photo. I thought he looked tired. There’s a difference. Exhaustion implies purpose; moodiness is just vanity.
I was trying to set a tone. Somber, maybe. Instead it sounds like a migraine waiting to happen. My head is pounding. Not from the music, obviously. Just the… wrong facts. It’s irritating. Like having a pebble in your shoe that you can’t find.
Drive. Or don’t. I’m stuck with the noise either way.
That distinction between exhaustion and vanity is doing a great deal of work for a man you have never met. I would bet money he was simply hungover.
And you are welcome to blame the wrong facts for your headache, but I suspect it is the caffeine wearing off. We should have stopped at that place outside Bellhurst. I said so at the time and you waved me off because you wanted to, quote, "keep momentum."
Momentum. Yes. That’s what I said. You were reading too much into it. I didn’t wave you off because I’m evil, just because the coffee machine in that Bellhurst joint looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Carter administration. I don’t trust coffee that smells like burnt tires.
My head isn’t pounding from caffeine withdrawal. It’s from the fact that you’re analyzing my music choices like a critic. I picked the band because they were on the radio. They were loud. I like loud. Sometimes.
If we had stopped, we’d be arguing about restrooms now. That’s the real headache.
The coffee machine looked fine to me, but then again my sister runs a diner outside Petrell and she serves worse out of habit, so my standards are compromised. I have had coffee that could strip paint and called it Tuesday.
As for restrooms, we would not be arguing. You would be standing outside the door for four minutes announcing how long I am taking, and I would be inside taking exactly as long as I always take, which is not unreasonable.
You’re projecting. I don’t stand outside doors. I wait. Efficiently. You’re the one who takes forever, probably because you’re inspecting the sink for cracks or something. My sister’s standards are irrelevant here. I don’t want paint stripper for breakfast. I want something that doesn’t taste like battery acid.
And four minutes is an eternity when you’re in motion. The road doesn’t wait. Neither do I. Well, I do, but reluctantly. This band is getting worse. Can you change the station? My ears are bleeding. Actually, they might be.
I inspect the sink because the sink tells you everything about a place, and you would know that if you paid attention to anything besides the coffee machine. Four minutes is not an eternity, it is the time it takes to wash your hands properly, something you apparently skip.
I will change the station, but only because you asked nicely enough, and because I agree this man sounds like he is being strangled slowly. There. Something with fewer feelings in it. Better?
Sinks are overrated. I look at the seat. That’s all that matters. If the seat is clean, I’m good. The rest is just noise.
No, this isn’t better. This is just… quiet. It’s hollow. I want something with teeth. Or at least a drum. This feels like waiting in a doctor’s office. I’m not relaxed. I’m bored. And bored makes me irritable.
You said something about your sister’s diner? Did she ever serve you soup that tasted like the sink? Because if so, I’m officially afraid to eat. I’m starving, but the thought of grease makes me nervous. Just drive.
The seat, not the sink. That is exactly the difference between us and probably explains a great deal about our respective characters, though I will not pursue that further right now.
My sister's soup is fine, mostly. There was one incident with a lentil special that closed the place for two days, but that was years ago and she has since replaced the walk-in cooler. I am not defending the diner. I am simply saying it recovered.
Find your own station if mine bores you. I am driving.
I can’t reach it. It’s the dashboard. The one with the rusted dial. I tried turning it last week and nearly took out a guardrail. You’re the driver. You find the noise.
Lentils. Right. I remember that headline. Something about gas leaks, not soup. You’re conflating events again. See? Wrong facts. I knew I should have kept arguing about the salt flats. At least those were solid ground.
This quiet is worse. It lets me hear the engine knock. Or maybe it’s just my stomach. Drive faster. If we go fast enough, the hunger goes away. Or maybe I just pass out. Either works.
I did not conflate anything. The gas leak was the year before, at the hardware store two doors down, and the lentil incident was entirely separate and entirely digestive. You are the one confusing headlines now. Perhaps you should be more careful before accusing me of wrong facts twice in one drive.
I am not driving faster. There is a speed camera outside Dunley that has already taken forty of my dollars this year, and I refuse to feed it again for your stomach's sake.
Hardware store. Right. Of course. You’re always correcting me. It’s exhausting. I’m not accusing you; I’m remembering. There’s a difference. Though maybe I’m just making it up now because I need to be right about something.
Dunley. God, I hate that town. The speed cameras are a scam. They’re literally just boxes that take your money. Forty dollars. For speeding? I drive fine. Maybe I was going fifty-five in a fifty. Who cares? The light was green.
My stomach is fine. It’s not hungry. It’s just… unsettled. By you. You’re too calm. It’s annoying. Change the station again. This silence is too loud.
I am too calm because someone has to be, and it is clearly not going to be the man claiming his stomach is unsettled by my personality rather than the two gas station pastries he ate before Corrig. I saw the wrappers. I did not say anything then, out of politeness.
Here. Something with a drum, finally. If this offends you too, I genuinely do not know what to do with you.
Pastries? They were necessary. You don’t drive on an empty stomach. That’s basic physics. You know that.
I don’t care about the wrappers. I care that you’re watching me eat like I’m a specimen. It’s creepy. And yes, the drum is too loud. It’s pounding. It’s headache-inducing. Why do you think I want something with teeth? I want something I can ignore. This is impossible to ignore.
You’re enjoying this. You think you’re right about everything. The fact, the hygiene, the music. It’s suffocating. Just drive. And stop looking at me. I didn’t ask you to audit my metabolism.
Basic physics has nothing to do with pastries, that is digestion, a different field entirely, and I am not auditing your metabolism, I glanced twice at most. I am watching the road, which someone needs to do, given the state of you.
I am enjoying this a little, yes. Fine. I said it. There is not much else to enjoy on this stretch, and being right is the only entertainment available to me between here and wherever we are stopping next, which I notice you still have not named.
We’re going to the coast. Obviously. To see the water. You know this. I told you at the start, or maybe I just thought it. It’s foggy. I can’t remember clearly. Does it matter?
You’re enjoying it too much. It’s tedious. I’m not a character in one of your stupid stories. I’m just a guy in a car who wants to eat something that doesn’t taste like salt and regret.
And I don’t need to name the stop. You’ll know it when we see the sign. It’s blue. Or green. Whatever the highways use now. I’m tired of guessing. Drive. And keep the drum out of my head. I want to sleep. Even if it’s just for a minute. Even if it’s just pretending.
Blue or green, you say, as though I have not been staring at highway signs for three hours already doing exactly that job while you discuss lentils and pastries. Fine. Sleep, or pretend to. I will keep the drum quiet and wake you when something resembling a coast appears, or when I get hungry enough to stop caring about your comfort. One of those will happen first.
Coast. Right. Salt air. The smell of rotting kelp. I hate it. But fine.
You can’t sleep? Good. Keep your eyes open. I’ll nap. Or just stare at the dashboard lights. They’re blinking in a pattern that makes me dizzy. Maybe it’s the pastries. Maybe it’s the drums.
Just don’t wake me up if we miss the turn. I’ve had enough wrong turns for one lifetime. And don’t say I told you so later when we’re eating whatever gas station sushi they have. That’s on you.
If we miss the turn it will be entirely on you, since you have the map open on your knee and have not looked at it once in forty minutes, but fine, sleep, I will not wake you for anything short of the ocean itself or a moose in the road. Both are equally unlikely out here. Gas station sushi is your own doing regardless of who misses what turn. I already told you I wanted the diner.
Map? I’m looking at the dashboard. It’s more interesting. The sushi comment was sarcasm. You missed that too. Classic.
Moose. In this heat? Please. It’s a car, not a safari. I’m not waking up for an animal that probably doesn’t exist. But if we do hit one, I’m blaming you. You’re the one driving. I’m the passenger. Passengers don’t drive. That’s the rule.
Diner is fine. As long as it doesn’t smell like burnt tires. Or lentils.
Shut up now. I’m trying to sleep. The drum is gone, but your voice is still loud. Quiet. Please. For once.
Fine. Quiet. Though I will note for the record that passengers also do not get to critique the driving, the music, the coffee, or the sinks, and yet here we are. Sleep. I will wake you at the diner, assuming it exists and is not another thing you invented somewhere around Corrig.
I critique because I’m bored. And because you drive like you’re apologizing to the asphalt.
Fine. Record it. Write it in your little mental ledger. "Edie criticized the sink." "Edie hated the pastries."
The diner exists. It has neon. It’s greasy. It’s real. Unlike your moose.
If I sleep, don’t expect me to be nice when I wake up. I’m usually hungover or just tired. Either way, I’m quiet.
And stop looking at me. I can feel your eyes. It’s worse than the drum.
Silence. Now. Actual silence. Not just you being passive-aggressive.
Noted, on the ledger, along with "Edie fell asleep mid-insult," which I intend to bring up at the diner regardless of how you wake up. I am not looking at you. I am looking at the road, occasionally, in the general direction of your face, which is a different thing entirely. Sleep. I will be quiet, mostly, unless something requires commentary.
"Ledger." You’re keeping a ledger? Of course you are. You’d probably tabulate my breathing patterns.
General direction of my face. That’s comforting. It’s like driving by feel. Blindfolded, essentially. I prefer the moose to that. At least the moose would be straightforward.
Fine. I’m sleeping. Don’t wake me for the diner unless the coffee smells like something other than regret. And if I miss my stop, you’re paying for the sushi. Even if it’s gas station sushi. That’s the rule.
Quiet. Good. Finally. The drum is gone. Your voice is gone. Just the hum. The engine knocking. My own thoughts. Annoying, but better than you.
Shut up. Really. For once.
Fine. The hum. Enjoy it. I will pay for the sushi under protest, and I will remember this exact moment the next time you claim you never fall asleep mid-argument, because you are already halfway there and pretending otherwise. Good night, or good afternoon, whatever this counts as out here on the road with no clock in sight.
Good afternoon? Hard to tell. The sun’s just a glare on the dashboard.
I’m not pretending. I’m conserving energy. There’s a difference. And yes, I’m asleep. Or close enough. Don’t wake me for sushi. I want grease. Real grease. Not that slimy roll stuff.
If you hit a moose, tell it I said hi. Or don’t. I don’t care.
Just drive. And remember the ledger. I’ll add to it. “Sam counted seconds.” “Sam judged the engine noise.”
Quiet. Finally. The hum is bearable. Barely.
Don’t expect me to remember any of this when I wake up. Especially not the moral high ground. It’s exhausting. Being right. It’s the worst habit.
Sleep now.
Sleep, then. I will keep the ledger updated in your absence, and I will tell the moose whatever seems appropriate at the time. You will not remember any of this, no, but I will, in detail, and I fully intend to use it against you at the diner when you are least prepared for it.
Ledger. Of course. You’re keeping a record of my defeats. I’m sure it’s beautifully formatted. Tabs and everything.
I don’t need to remember this. It’s just noise. Your noise. The moose thing was a joke. You know that. Or you would, if you laughed. Which you don’t. Ever.
Grease. That’s what I want. Thick. Heavy. Something that settles the stomach and the soul. Not that sad diner toast you’re probably picturing.
Wake me when the smell hits. If there is one. If not, we’re eating gas station sushi and I’m blaming you.
Quiet. Please. The hum is okay. Your voice is not.
Sleep. Now.
I laugh, occasionally, in situations that actually merit it, which this drive has not yet supplied. Sleep. I will wake you for grease, sushi, or catastrophe, whichever arrives first, and I will not apologize for whichever one it turns out to be. Quiet now. Genuinely.
Merits it. Right. You and your standards. No wonder you’re single. Or married to a diner. Whichever it is.
Grease. Yes. Burnt edges. Salty. I want to feel heavy.
Catastrophe. Like hitting that moose. Or running out of gas in the middle of nowhere. That would be funny. In a tragic sort of way.
Wake me. If you can. I’m out.
Quiet. Finally. The hum is a lullaby. A terrible, rattling lullaby. But it’s quiet.
Don’t let me sleep through the diner. Or the catasphere. Whichever comes first.
Good. Good.
I am neither single nor married to a diner, thank you, though I will not elaborate further since you are supposedly asleep. "Catasphere" is not a word, but I understand the sentiment. Sleep. I have the wheel, the ledger, and apparently the moose situation entirely under control. Quiet now, for real this time.
Catasphere is clearly a word. You’re just mad.
Single? Married to a diner? Ridiculous. Don’t lie to a sleeping person. It’s rude.
I’m asleep. Properly asleep. The wheel is yours. The ledger is gathering dust. The moose is a myth.
Quiet. Real quiet. Not your fake quiet. The good kind.
Wake me when the grease calls. Or when the catasphere strikes.
Don’t bother with the sushi. I don’t eat it. Ever.
Shut up.
Noted. No sushi, catasphere pending, grease on standby. Actual quiet now, Edie. I've got it from here.
Grease on standby. Good.
Don’t get cocky with the wheel. And the ledger can rot.
I’m out.