Something feels diseased in New England. The state highways look like interstates, only here they slice through lands so flat lined with trees so tall that the horizon ends where the roadway does, where the bridge into Maine sags sleepily half a mile ahead. Yes, they look like interstates, but here they cost a pocketful of small change. My breath isn't held. The fog has set in, but the trailers and the slick asphalt are as visible as ever. I'm waiting to go blind. I can keep waiting, I guess. I aim the vent on the dashboard at my face. The heat will melt my mascara, and then I'll be as good as blind. She wants to talk, but I just want to be submerged in the graceless fact of my own solitude. She wants to talk, but I just want to be held.
Halfway to Chester we stop at the beach. I can see the ocean but I can't see the waves. A family of six brandishes umbrellas to a dim streetlamp. We're still loading the meter with dimes. The boy in the arcade wears a miked headset on one ear and a dubious earphone in the other. His foot's moving; he can't be past fifteen. We stare into lenses by which we feel safe being seen. It is all a matter of place, I know.
But you are holding something in your hands, and you won't let me see. I can feel its breath through your knuckles. You found it under your bed, you say, and you let it feast on saltines before making plans to drop it into the neighbors' mail slot. Well done! I exclaim. Evidently the human heart can be put to better use. At five in the morning, I don't know what I'm saying.
The gutters are overflowing. The woods lay in wait. The only other sign of life--his term--rides two unicycles, and I can't help but wonder if this is all some heavy-handed metaphor from God. It better not be, because not long after sunset I circled the grounds singing Amazing Grace, this time to my shadow. My excuse was that I was looking for somebody, but for once I wasn't trying very hard.
Tomorrow has never held such promise.
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