The Levee Road
I’ll take you down the levee road where I first learned to drive, past riverfront houses then back behind the airport. It’s always empty out there, especially at night, save the barn owls perched on power lines and fences, save the rabbit that once ran under my tire. We can stop there and let our breath fog the windows until airport security drives out to make sure we’re not terrorists. I’ll jump out without my shoes on and he’ll decide we’re just a couple of teenagers having sex. You can watch the silhouette of an unidentified man unholster his gun and tell me to turn around. It’s always empty out there save the instruments of death.
I’ll take you down the levee road where I first learned to drive. We can throw fifty-five hundred pounds of metal down the road with reckless abandon, then drive home, feeling guilty about the sex we never had. I’ll tell you about that time with the rabbit, about how I couldn’t feel it’s body obliterate, absorbed into the shocks. There it was, in my lights on the side of the road. I crept into the oncoming lane, and it took a hop into mine. I gave it more space, and then it closed it. My vehicle performed beautifully like it was built for this. I flinched into the dead air.
You can imagine how I pulled over to catch my breath, sitting for a while until the windows fogged. Imagine me killing the engine, waiting for the cold to creep in, waiting in empty silence save the echo of that underwhelming thump. Security never came out, but I suppose they would’ve decided I was there masturbating. I suppose I would have driven home feeling sick about it, blood still wet on my tire.
