Bronson Gao

七月十八日

道

忘れてはいけない

The story went on. I fed my attention, and said almost nothing. We were floating in the darkness, our purgatory of county roads, and a lack of meaning for anything. I still don’t know why this started. Maybe it was something I did, or said. Now, though, I think that could be the least important thing. Never mind what any of it means, “I need to get gas.”

“What time is it?” I ask the attendant. I go in to buy some Slim Jims and Red Bull. I forgot we never stopped for food, or at all, in the last four or five hours—I would guess.

“12:34 AM,” he says. It’s not as bad as I would’ve thought, but still, I only have a rough idea of where the hell we are, and what the situation will be once we get back in town—who goes where—is a further mystery. Selfishly, I could imagine her staying at my place, a thought just to serve my own ego. But still, that’s what lingers.

I get gas and get back in the car. “I got some snacks if you’re interested,” I say, realizing I should’ve asked what she liked beforehand.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. She takes a drink and a beef stick and we’re gone again. Time passes, and “Thank you for everything,” she says, seemingly having stabilized just enough.

“It’s no problem.” I’d kinda forgotten why we started driving to begin with, into this abyss at the end of America: where time is forgotten, the radio stations are different, and things can look unfamiliar, but just as plastic and ordinary as what’s always been.

For the car, I bet I told a lie that didn’t need to be any stronger than it was, mainly because my parents only care about retaining the veil of authority, even if what’s inside has been hollowed out by loss, bad faith, etc. Some American dream it’s been. To the wonderful life, I’m goin’ down. And 1:27 AM, I drop her off at her house, and I’m back home by 2:15.