Fifty more miles or thirty more minutes, he thinks as he takes the curve.
A ballad plays and she waits. She is nervous, so much so she got physically ill earlier.
The road is thin and rural with no light outside the ones he has on the truck. A thumping bass vibrates the windows.
She distracts herself with puzzles she can't solve and reminds herself to breathe.
His mind is aching with three months of exile, a building hunger. He needs to see her.
She is flattered by need but pressured by want.
He turns into the drive. She sees his lights.
A brightly lit cafe in the middle of the afternoon. Two old friends have a booth. He studies the coffee spoon as he moves it with his thumb between each finger. She watches his hand.
You won't believe what happened, what I did.
He looks up at her, I can't wait to hear this.
It was so random and I don't even know why and I don't regret it.
I think I just wanted to see things through a man's eyes. Ya' know, your eyes.
What the hell are you talking about?
Everything but the feelings changed that day.
He stops to get gas in the old pickup, starts walking in to pay and notices her husband in the window. The husband waves and points. He turns around and there she is sitting in the Suburban, baby in lap. Her face says she doesn't want to be seen but he has no choice now 'cause anything short of walking up to the window and exchanging the customary niceties of two old friends would lead her husband to think there was more to it than that.
And nobody has time for the tale of a broken heart.