How much further? My neck is killing me. I was thinking about that old habit of writing addresses on envelopes by hand. Real ink, actual pressure. Now it’s just auto-fill, ghosts of data crawling across screens. Feels like we lost something. Or maybe gained patience, who knows. Just driving. God, I hope this road isn’t endless.
My neck hurts too. Shoulders are concrete. Envelopes? People still do that, I guess. Or don’t. Auto-fill is faster, sure. Saves time. But you’re right about the pressure. Can’t argue with that. Though I doubt we gained patience. I’m snapping at you already.
Look at the sign. It says two miles. Two miles of this. The radio’s playing something with just drums. It’s making me tense. Keep your eyes on the road, Nell. Please.
Two miles. fucking hell. You want to talk about pressure? Try gripping this wheel until your knuckles turn white while some tribal thumping beats the shit out of my eardrums. It’s not helping my blood pressure, Edie. And don’t tell me to look at the road, I’m the one driving. You’re just sitting there judging my grip strength. Maybe if you hadn’t snapped at me for noticing the ink, we wouldn’t be in this mood. Shut up. Just shut up and let me drive. I’m trying to keep us alive.
I didn't say anything about your grip. I said the drums are making me tense. Which is true. The thumping is aggressive.
And for the record, I’m not judging you. I’m just… I’m tired. My lower back is screaming. The seat is broken, see? There’s a hole in the foam. You can feel it against my spine. It’s like sitting on a hidden rock.
You’re right. I should stop talking. It’s rude. I’m sorry. I’ll just watch the road. Hopefully the tribal thing stops before the exit. Or before I vomit. Hard to tell which comes first.
God, Edie, stop apologizing. It’s worse than the snapping. I know the seat’s shot. I felt that wobble when I backed in. I didn’t want to talk about the maintenance fund. Doesn’t matter now. The drums are getting louder, or maybe my head is just pounding against the skull. Two miles. Just two. If you vomit, don’t you dare hit my nice shirt. I hate this car. I hate this song. I hate that I can’t turn it off without fiddling with a cassette deck from 1998. Shut your eyes. Please. Just rest.
I’m not closing my eyes. You’ll crash. I saw that pothole. It’s huge. Like a crater. You’re drifting left. Correct it. Now.
And I’m not wearing a nice shirt. It’s old. Stained with coffee from Tuesday. Or was it Monday? Hard to remember. The cassette is jammed. I tried to eject it. It just clicked. Like a tooth falling out.
Two miles. You keep saying that. It feels like two years. My eyes are dry. I wish it would rain. Or snow. Anything to change the light. The sun is glaring off the hood. It’s blinding. Squinting makes me dizzy. Keep driving, Nell. Please. Just keep it straight.
Watch the hole, Edie. I saw it. Swerved. You’re backing that up. "Correct it. Now." Like I’m some rookie. I’ve been driving since before your coffee stain. It’s Tuesday, by the way. I wiped the dash. Sun’s aggressive today. Glare’s bad. My eyes are burning too. Stupid cassette player. Click-click-click. Useless junk. I hate it. Two miles feels like two decades. Keep your head down if you want. I’m handling the wheel. Stop micromanaging my neck. Just breathe. We’re almost there. Or close enough to pretend.
I didn’t say rookie. I said pothole. There’s a difference. You swerved because you were looking at me. I saw it in the mirror. The glare is bad, yeah. But the hole is worse. It’s a crater, Nell. A literal crater.
Coffee stain. Tuesday. You’re wrong. It was Wednesday. I spilled it when I dropped the keys. You know this. You were there. Or you were supposed to be.
Two decades. Right. My ears are ringing. That drum track is physical. It’s inside my skull. Just drive. Please. I’m trying to rest my eyes. If I fall asleep, you have to keep it straight. No sudden moves. No swerving. Just straight.
Shut up. It was Wednesday. You dropped the keys. I remember the noise. You’re delirious. Glare is melting my retinas. That drum track is literally vibrating my fillings. I’m not swerving. I’m correcting. You were looking in the mirror, not at me. Don’t flatter yourself. Keep your eyes closed if you want to sleep. Dream of non-jammed cassettes. But if you actually pass out, don’t expect me to wake you up for the exit. You’ll miss it. Then we’ll really suffer. Just shut your mouth. The sun is too bright. My head hurts. Stop talking about Wednesdays. It’s Tuesday. Always Tuesday.
Always Tuesday. Right. My brain is mush.
Fine. I’ll close my eyes. Just keep the car on the asphalt, Nell. Don’t let us hit the ditch. If we hit the ditch, I’m blaming you. Even if it’s Tuesday. Even if it’s Wednesday. It doesn’t matter. The light is too bright. I can feel the drum thumping in my teeth. It’s annoying.
You say you’re correcting. I believe you. Mostly. Just… don’t let go of the wheel. And if the cassette finally ejects, don’t throw it at me. It’s trash, but it’s my trash. Keep driving. I’m done arguing about days. I’m done arguing. Just drive.
It’s Tuesday. You’re dreaming. I’m not throwing the tape. It’s in my pocket. Like a relic. The drum track is finally fading into static. Good. Your eyes are shut. Good. I’ve got the wheel. I’ve got the road. Don’t blame me for the ditch. You’re the one who picked the passenger seat in this tin can. I’m driving. Just like you said. Straight. No swerving. Just asphalt and silence. Finally. Your breathing is slowing down. Good. Sleep. I’ll wake you when the exit hits. Assuming I don’t fall asleep myself. The sun is still too bright. Shut up.
You dropped the keys on Wednesday. I heard them clatter. You picked them up. I saw you. Your fingers were shaking. Tuesday is a lie we tell ourselves to feel in control. But the keys are Wednesday. Always Wednesday.
The static is annoying. It sounds like rain. I wish it would rain. Wash the dust off the windshield. Wash the glare away.
Don’t fall asleep, Nell. If you fall asleep, I’m not waking you. Let’s crash. See what happens. Maybe we’ll wake up in a different time. A time without cassettes. Without Tuesdays. Without your terrible taste in music.
Keep driving. Straight. Don’t look at me. I’m asleep. I’m definitely asleep.
Fuck you. I didn’t drop the keys. I threw them. In anger. You’re dreaming, Edie. Wake up. Stop trying to seduce me into a crash. That’s not romantic. That’s suicide. I’m wide awake. My eyes are dry as sandpaper. The static is annoying, yeah. But it’s better than the drums. And my taste isn’t terrible. You just have a short attention span. Keep sleeping. If you vomit, I’m leaving you there. The ditch sounds nice, actually. Quiet. No more arguing about days. Just wind and rust. Shhh. Sleep. I’m driving. I’m always driving. Even when I’m not.
I didn’t say romantic. I said crash. There’s a difference. You’re the one talking about rust. Charming.
Throwing keys. Fine. You’re angry. Whatever. I’m not sleeping. I’m resting my eyes. Big difference. Don’t put words in my mouth. And if you leave me in the ditch, I’ll haunt your cassette player. Every time you try to eject it, it’ll scream.
Sandpaper eyes. You should blink. Or use the visor. Or both. Stop talking about suicide. It’s rude. And not very funny. Keep driving. Straight. No more swerving. Or I’ll take the wheel. Even if it’s Tuesday. Even if it’s Wednesday. I don’t care anymore. Just keep it on the road. Please.
Your eyes are closed, Edie. You’re not resting. You’re waiting for me to slip up. Fine. I’ll use the visor. Happy? The glare is still unbearable. I hate this car. I hate this road. I hate that you think you can take the wheel when you can’t even remember which day it is. Keep dreaming. I’m driving. Straight. No swerving. And if you haunt my cassette player, I’ll burn it. Burn it all. Just shut up. Let me drive. I’m the only one keeping us alive. Don’t make me regret not leaving you in that ditch.
Burn it. See if I care. It’s garbage.
I’m not waiting for you to slip up. I’m waiting for the exit. Two miles. You keep saying that. It’s a lie. It’s always a lie. My eyes are closed because the sun is an enemy. You’re the one threatening to burn things. Violent.
I didn’t say I can’t remember. I said Wednesday. You said Tuesday. It doesn’t matter. We’re stuck in amber. In this tin can.
You’re keeping us alive? Barely. Your grip is white-knuckled. You’re going to cramp. Cramp the wheel. Crash. Then we’ll see who’s haunting whom.
Just drive. Straight. Don’t look at me. I’m done. I’m out. Go to hell. Or the exit. Same place, really.