Once he's out on the open road again, the glittering lights devastate him.
Reminds him, too much, of the woman who's left behind nursing a half-glass of wine on the porch, eyes glossy and red, mascara the gauntlet runner.
She's finally saying goodbye to his sorry behind.
She hates him. Cut and clean. "Get your ****, you need to leave."
"If you stay here, I'm calling the cops."
She whips out the phone, taps in the number shoves it in his face.
She plays no games, no ***** given today.
A baby bump, bumped its ugly head into him.
Sleeping some nights, on the soft shell, he could hear it too.
A murmur here, a murmur there, a murmur everywhere.
She dreams of the days on the beaches, the crystals on the clear blue, the screeching silks careening through the sky, the canary diamond cradled by the waves.
The good ole days before disgust ruined her heart against him.
The gorged days of Fall, burning, passionate nights of Winter, glorious victories of Spring.
One night, he flipped out, left the house heaving and didn't come back for awhile.
But the nail driven couldn't be un-driven.
Before he turned the ignition-- for thirty minutes-- he picked a blister on his thumb until it bled.