Fictional Memoirs: He


Style is everything. A balled up receipt pressed on his thigh and made a small indention in his left pocket. Adjusting in the carpeted seat, he pulled out his key. The teal green 98 Honda Civic rumbled as he turned the slightly bent key for the third time.  He had been utilizing the copy since he lost the first set.

His eyes peered past the center of the steering wheel into the faded black plastic of the dashboard. His breath was long and slow. The rumbling turned into a whirling. His breath dissipated out of sight in front of him. It reminded him of smoking. Not that he smoked. When he was 14 some kids from school offered him a square. The unpleasant presence clogging his untainted lungs made him choke. The thought of returning seemed much like choking. Thrown in a room where eyes saw his every move. His retro gloves flexed around his hand as he hammered on the dusty dash board. He suspected a bad bulb.

Despite the ever looming question that captivated his desolate mind, he pushed the gear into drive. He swallowed. The lump was hot then wet. He suspected a cold. The red and black wires hung over the side of where the cassette player should have been like strands of paper hanging on the outside of an unplugged air conditioner. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to stay awake. The road was vast and empty. Freshly painted banana yellow stripes leap-frogged down the two lane road.Through his metacognition, temptations of closing his eyes to rest filled his mind. The thought was illogical but inviting. In an attempt to flee the desire he imagined a freight truck flying down the road from nowhere. The idea captivated his senses. Cold then hot.

His gloves seemed to have dissolved under a sort of comfort. Perfect music filled the now perfect space. The trip was cut short by 2 hours. He chuckled to himself about the great time he made. “What was I so worried about?”. Returning is often dreaded. He always thought that others would be where he was. Now he is not so sure. He reached for his receipt hoping to return the style he had bought. The receipt was not there though. All that was left in his pocket was the answer to a declaration that could not be changed.


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