Blink

It was my dream that you followed. That was your first mistake. My dream. That old dream. That rent a convertible and drive across the States dream. That old Kerouac paperback dream. That let Route 66 be more than the bus home dream. My dream and you followed. Should have been saving for a house. Wasn’t that the plan? Might have been. Maybe you thought I’d get this out of my system and we’d go home. Home. That home. That home we nearly had. Home that wasn’t the rented flat with the damp and the expiring lease. That was the plan. That was the dream.

Now we just wait and see. Who’ll go first? Who’ll walk out first? The expanse of sky. The wide open road. Means nothing when we’re stuck in the same space every day. Means nothing when we run out of things to say. Means nothing when we’re each waiting for a truck stop or a small town to appear over the horizon so we can find an excuse to stop.

Hotels weren’t good enough. No. No, I wanted the authentic experience so had to find the shittiest motels we could along the way. I had to find the rooms with the paper-thin walls, the brown water that never gets above tepid and the buzzing neon that get louder at night. You could have said something. You should have said something. Why don’t you speak anymore? Why? Just tell me. Please just tell me.

Maybe you’re enjoying it in your own way? Maybe you’re finding out something about yourself as we pass the empty miles. I’m learning something about myself. Do you want to hear? No? Well, you’re not listening but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m a prick. Every mile that we rack up in this piece of crap car that just drinks petrol and has never been comfortable, every mile that we clock up looking out at the great big emptiness of the road, the road, the bloody road, every mile we pass shows me more and more that I’m a prick.

Blink

I dragged you out here and now it’s too late. Too late for the both of us. There’s no point in waiting until we reach the west coast. There’s no point in just jacking it all in and deciding to go home. We’re done. I brought us out here and all I’ve proved is that we’re done. The best thing that can happen is one of us decide to go early. Get it over with.

Did I steal the little horse or did you? That bar last night that I can’t remember. That whiskey last night that I can still taste. Was it a gift from me to you or from you to me? Can’t remember. Doesn't matter. Waste of time now. Leave it behind when we check out. Let someone else worry about it.

One of us should just go. It would be a kindness.