Latvian Rows

I ask myself sometimes why I like driving so much. I wonder if it’s because I enjoy moving and flowing with the environment, slicing through the air like a jet with a set destination, or if I just like getting away. I have to keep moving because if I stop I’ll never make it. If I stop, I’ll remember where I am. If I stop… I’ll have to face myself again.

The world got really loud all of the sudden; it was thrumming in my ears like a bellow, and I was trying to ignore it, like an idiot. I choked on something (my tongue, maybe?) and stared out the window, letting the misting clouds carry me away. My forehead fell against the plated glass of the car window and we sat. A line of cars trailed back down the exit ramp, and the construction traffic poured across the intersection, denying access to the turnoff like a mighty, metallic river. We sat. The light behind the clouds was milky and damp; it was the absence of feeling, like looking at the embodiment of numbness.
         I ask if we could get gas, the pump being in the opposite direction, but remember we’re in the wrong lane. We sit in a muted silence created by so much more than just not talking. She pulls into the left lane, cutting across the mighty river like a snake and landing on the opposite side unscathed. I wished life was that way… Conducted by lights and crossing guards who instructed you to pull across, that even though it looked impassible, it was safe now.
         I pretended to get a call. It was ten minutes before I tried to steady my breathing. My eyes were stinging and my throat was aching. My fists were curled into tight, deliberate balls that wanted to punch something until it stopped moving, like maybe myself. I pulled the mirror down and wiped long streaks of black mascara off my reddened cheeks. I thought I looked like a clown. I reapplied mascara and even eyeliner, forcing my lungs to relax and stop spasming. I had to stop this. I could go on for days. I had to go in to the crowd of people whom believed I was on the phone. There’s only so much you can say before people realize you’re not saying anything at all.
         I looked in the mirror and smiled, looking the part, down to sparkly lipgloss and an odd looking smile that somehow curved my face into a decidedly happy configuration. I wondered at it. By all standards, it was a smile. How could it look so sad? I felt like I was wearing a powdery mask over my wet, red cheeks. I was a clown, decked up in paints that masked my face from the world, curving it into a bubbly smile that somehow still resembled a frown.