Fast Lane

She looked at her phone. He was late. 

She wasn’t worried about him per se; she just missed him. He promised her they’d have dinner together, so maybe she was a little hungry as well. Okay, maybe it was the hunger that was making her feeling irksome. 

Her room was small, but without him, it seemed too spacious for her comfort. It wasn’t that she hated large open spaces; she just couldn’t stand the void of loneliness that crept back into her life when he wasn’t there. That void seemed to encompass her so fully she felt like she would lose touch with this beautiful reality she’s found herself in ever since he walked in.

She wasn’t disappointed in him per se; she was just a tad blue. He told her he was going to be half an hour late, but that turned into an hour because of the traffic, so maybe he wasn’t all to blame. Okay, maybe she blamed him a little for not avoiding the traffic.

Her life wasn’t all butterflies and rainbows after he happened; to be frank, he didn’t do that much to change things up from her usual climate anyway. It mainly had a lot to do with how there seemed to be less dark days than usual. She hated how he was like a tattoo on her, under her skin and a part of the way the world saw her. It wasn’t because she wasn’t happy about this; quite the contrary, she found joy in the smiles he gave to her. She hated it because the only way she could let him go was to rip him out of her.

She looked at her phone. He was late.

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He looked at his phone. He was late.

He wasn’t worried about himself per se; he’s lived safe yet borderline dangerously for quite a while. The pedal wouldn’t go further into the floor of the car. The speedometer teetered over the edge of the 220 kph mark, a little higher than his usual indulgence. Okay, maybe he was a little more reckless than usual.

His car was a beautiful modified sedan, sports spec attachments, and improvements that both tore a hole in his pocket and gave him satisfaction by the mile, but that didn’t match up to the joy she brought. He smiled as the image of her walking up to him that cute way she swaggered made him miss her more. He promised her they’d have dinner together, and he knew how she’d feel if she was left hungry for too long. 

He wasn’t indifferent about disappointing her as his face seemingly showed; quite the contrary, underneath his calm mask of concentration, he was disappointed in himself for letting her down. This wasn’t the first time, and he kicked himself mentally for knowing that this won’t be the last either. She gave him so much more to live for than the cheap thrills he was used to, more than the speed on the road and so much more than the sting of alcohol that lined the walls of his mouth and throat. A glass or two of sweet heavenly red had passed by his lips, lips that would have to explain to his lover why he was late, why an indulgence in spirits was of good motive before leaving his friends. 

He looked at his phone. He was late. 

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She looked at her phone. It was late.

She had sat on the freshly upturned dirt, her eyes sore and dry. It ached now, that need to cry now long gone and replaced by that need to stop. The sun was low on the horizon now, and the messy patch of ground that housed someone she once knew seemed more welcoming than the prospect of home and a warm bed. She ached for the night he never came home, the morning she went to the morgue to see the result of the incident the night before, and the afternoon spent in a group of friends who felt only snippets of her grief. They had lives to live, and so they left on their ways to live them. She knew she had to go too, she knew she could do nothing now to change what is to what could have been.

She painfully lifted her gaze from the ground to the inscribed stone that marked the resting place of someone that once made her life seem liveable.

Loving friend, who left us too early.

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DRIVE RESPONSIBLY, DRIVE SAFE.