A Lovers’ Road Trip

For a number of seasons now
she’s been cruising down this tangible, intangible highway
at an unknown rate of miles per hour:
sometimes, apparently, without the car.

“I feel like I’m running on empty,” she’ll say.

“Then stop running, baby. Get back in the car,” He’ll tell her.

She’ll get back in.

He knows the exits and rest stops better than she does
as well as their ultimate destination.
“Let’s exit, next right,” He’ll say.
She still doesn’t know exactly how He does it
but the next right exit will always have whatever she needs
whether she knew or said she needed it or not:
a contract,
a relationship,
a cemetery,
a bite to eat,
a comfy couch.

This particular time, however,
she’s a bit puzzled to find a catered buffet
blocking the roadway at the next exit.
“Come on, let’s eat,” He says, and she follows Him out of the car.
They serve each other dinner
and she eats as much as she wants from the buffet,
the food rather bitter and sweet
filling her with nostalgia and hope.

It’s not until they start on dessert,
when the painfully pleasant flavor of their shared slice of cake brings hot tears to her eyes,
that He quietly asks her,
“How is it?”

She smiles up at Him. “It tastes like a wedding,” she whispers.

“Yes. Well, we needed another,” He whispers back.
She can hear His tears too, even if she can’t see them.
“I’ve missed you, baby,” He says. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

“Funny that You should miss me,” she replies. “We’ve been traveling together for seasons, now.”

But, she knows what He means. She’s missed Him, too.

“Where to next?” she asks when they’re back in the car.

“Where do you think?” is all He’ll say, for now. Their road trip continues.

Sometimes, while cruising down the highway
she can hardly tell if He’s the passenger
the driver
or more like an inevitable force somewhere outside of the car
pushing or pulling the car further along
at an unknown rate of miles per hour.

She thinks to herself,
it could be, perhaps,
that He loves her enough to be all of those things
simultaneously.

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