Bronson Gao

七月十七日

道

町の外

町の外にいる。ここには建物が全然ない。三時間ぐらい運転して音楽を聞いていると思う。また、これは映画みたい。後で、あなたは何を考えている？

もう一度夕方が始まります。それから、今夜には何もない。そして、今泣いていることについて、話してくれない？

“What’s wrong?” I ask her. We’ve been silent for awhile now. I saw her from my periphery, holding her head away from my eyes. I didn’t say anything, and can now hear consequences of my inaction.

She cried, softly, just like the sizzle of an amplifier left to drone. "Hey, we can head back now if you’re—"

“No!” she yells, and it must be more than myself. Then, she just kept crying, and I kept driving, hoping it would stop sooner than later—it, whatever that was.

It, whatever that was, it could’ve been the whole situation, her crying, or the fact that I could do nothing but keep going. These are just the situations you find yourself in, where a moral compass is useless, and I’ll say it again that this looks like a stupid fucking movie: the dramatic breakdown in the car; the hesitance on my part; the illusion of control, also on my part.

I think I’m more nervous now that it’s over. It’s dead in here, no more laughter, no more chatter, just the noise to fill the cracks. I’m working out the right words in my head, forming and reforming. Ultimately, though, I don’t think I have the nerve.

But fuck it. “Wanna talk about it?”

With an ugly voice, I feel a wash of hot shame. I also feel the whole scenario stripping apart at the seams. Nothing really matters in any tense.