2003-07-06 - 3:47 a.m. - -
for seth and other.inspired by:
conversation with manna
a geoff farina song
several women i have known
IV.
There are cars driving. They drive themselves, really. Their drivers, passengers who sit and guide, absent mindedly, one hand on the wheel, one eye on the road. He is among these passengers, his mouth to her ear, and his ear to her mouth, as he sits and guides the rusted steel vessel that surrounds him. He is on the interstate. She is in her bathtub. Can I call you back. When I�m out of the bath? She asks as soon as he calls. I�m driving. I wanted to talk is all, he says as he changes lanes. What did you want to talk about? She says this through the arc of a sigh. He doesn�t respond immediately, attempting to match his speed to the car in front of him. I heard on the radio, while I was driving, that they have bandages made from shrimp now. Now it is her turn to pause. He changes lanes again to the sound of her breathing in his ear. You want to talk about bandages made from shrimp? He can feel her rolling her eyes; he rolls his too. No. I just wanted to tell you that. They use part of the shrimp and turn them into a paste, a sort of plastic, and it molds over the wound, and becomes a part of the body. The traffic abruptly slows around him until he is no longer moving. She answers: That�s great, but couldn�t it wait until I�m out of the bath? Rain starts falling on his windshield. It�s not all about that though. The scattered drops turn into a downpour. Then what�s it about? He: You remind me of those shrimp. She: What are you talking about? He: The way your body shrinks and expands to fit against mine, the way you grow into me, become a part of me. The rain is eating away his car, washing it in pieces first, then chunks, down onto the interstate and off to the sides. The asphalt beneath him turns red with the rust bleeding out from his car. She: So I am like the shrimp. He: You are the shrimp. Where his car once stood there are only two bench seats, parallel to each other. And I just wanted you to know that. You are the shrimp. As he speaks this, the numbers on his phone turn to liquid and run down his face with the rain. She: But what does that say about me, honestly, if I am only to fill your wounds. His phone is gone entirely now. He hesitates before speaking, not knowing if she will hear, or if everyone else in the locked up in the string of traffic�still dry in their cars�would look at him and believe him to be talking to himself. He: You are this for everyone. She: So I am nothing for myself, only to others. He: Yes. You are grace. She: I want to be more than grace. He: You are the end of time. What searchers search for and never find, you found it, because you are it. She: I don�t know what to say. He speaking only to the air in front of his face: You are infinite. She, naked still in the bathtub, reaching up for a bar of soap: Your signal is breaking up, call me later.
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