There He Goes

StraDawg

12/03/2002

The bright neon refracts strange colors into his watery eyes as he turns
into the driveway. "I could be catching the end of Springer right now,"
he thinks. He comes a little closer than he'd like to hitting another
car; he's rushing.

He hopes she's not mad he's a few minutes late. Well, no matter. He
looked through the paper today and thought about getting a job -- that
should make her happy, he believes.

He coasts past the valet, and they acknowledge each other. The exchange
is neither friendly nor spiteful, simply an interchange between two
workers on the late shift.

He wheels the car around, poised to exit, and pops the trunk. Before he
even unbuckles his seat belt, he can hear her bags being tossed in the
back.

As he emerges from the car, his knee brushes a dent in the rear door,
where she kicked it the night before. She was mad at him for something
he said. He was too drunk to remember what it was, but, even now, he's
sure it was damn funny.

He chuckles to himself as he walks past the wheel where the temporary
spare has replaced the full-size tire. It's been like that for
two-and-a-half weeks. He's finally going to fix that tomorrow.

Yeah, right.

There is no electricity in their touch. Not right now, anyway. Right now
it's just some routine, courteous greeting embrace between two tired
people who want to go home.

When they get home, maybe there will be something to lengthen the night:
a drink, a swallow, a smoke, a toke, maybe even a look or a word and
then a fight or a fuck. Right now, he outpaces her to the car. He's well
in and has his hand on the ignition even before she slumps into her seat.

"There he goes," I think, as I watch them drive away. "There goes Dancer
Boyfriend. Not me. Not on your life."

As I climb into my car, I think of my ATF and wonder,"What if?

"What if?"