I was driving to a friend's house last night to play cards. I rolled the front windows down and the cool fall air was lifesaving. The drive is why I go; the games I bear.

I get behind a truck going thirty-five in a forty. After following a little too close, both me and the car behind me, miraculously, back off. Here we are: three enigmas agreed to a snail's pace. I can't speak for the reasoning of the car behind me, although I attribute it to maturity, since they were the first to accept the slower speed. As for me, the more night air I could breathe in, the longer I will live. So that solves car two and three, but what of the instigator of this leisurely exercise? The leading truck, blue I believe. All I can imagine is an extension of my own fantasies living out some sort of truth in the truck in front of me.

He is going slow because they aren't going anywhere and he doesn't want the night to end. Normally he would have the windows down, curse those bright lights behind me, pushing our time together, rushing the river. I would have the windows down but she smells too good and I wouldn't dare wash that smell out with the night air. I hope it stains my seats, like I'm about to stain the seats of the car behind me with its driver's blood if they don't back off. Just a little longer. A little more, please. Thirty-five isn't so bad, a second more. Thirty. Twenty-five. We all slow down. You'd think it was a school zone. Twenty. Fifteen. He lets go of the wheel. Ten. Five. She meets him halfway. Zero. They are frozen in time, in a kiss.

I let them have it, comfy with their enjoyment, the night air, and a static laced radio. The car behind me, either Father Time or God, decides to keep me company while we wait.

I wouldn't ruin it for them, but the road does end, and eventually all you have are stained seats.

The Word

Blood

Ink

Butcher