"You can't wish that, no don't say that...don't even think those thoughts. It will only jinx us."
The light was broken, haphazard, cutting through abstract raindrop-splattered patterns on the front glass. The floorboard was cluttered with trash and it looked like I felt when I reached into the two of us and tried to find words to explain away pain.
The drops held her diluted attention and kept her scanning the parking lot for recognizable delivery. I spoke to air, in the confined air, about airy wishes. She focused on the things that were real: the drops, the garbage, the hurt, the insatiable need, the clawing inside of her, the anger, and the hopelessness.
"Geeeeez, mfing Louise, will it ever stop raining?" I try to break the solid air inside the car, try to initiate something, elicit a hopefully civil response.
The sound of rain was overpowering and the drops obscured the view and the time loomed electronic-green accusations at us in that darkened parking lot where we were subject to someone else's schedule and hurt steamed the glass as we waited.
"What is it we're doing anyway?" she quietly asked the falling drops, and I had no answer.
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