[The Man Who Lied]
Most of the lights were out in the city. We used to guess what the other was thinking. I had to drive slow in the water and at one point I thought we might have to get out of the car and swim. We loved to stay up all night and then sleep all day on Sunday. She sat in the passenger seat and gazed out the window as if the landscape was on fire. Our favorite moments were when one of us couldn't think of anything to say. We were the witnesses to a great catastrophe, flooded cars, frozen traffic jams, burnt out street lights. I've never forgot the way her hair curled around her ears and brushed the top of her shoulders on the day we met. People stood in doorways and watched from windows as we drifted down streets and seemed to float down streams. She always reminds me to put my glasses on while reading instead of squinting and furrowing my brows. I wasn't sure what we were looking for, because I was not sure what had happened, but I knew my wife had witnessed something beyond words. She used to fold her hands politely in her lap when someone was talking to her, but never when listening to me.
I watched her from the corner of my eye as she nearly leaned out the open passenger side window, wondering if she might suddenly climb through it and splash into the street. I always laugh when she laughs, even if I'm unsure as to why. [italics] What happened? [italics] I asked her when we reached the park and the center of the city, because if we were to drive further, we would start leaving the city behind. She keeps a hand carved wooden box that her father made on the mantle in our living room and places every note I've ever written her within it. [italics] The Light [italics] she repeated, and I wondered if I would ever understand what this Light was. My best friend from school once told me he wanted to kiss her, before we started going together, and I wrestled him to the ground. The park was drained of water and the trees stretched up in attempts to blot the buildings from sight. He shoved me off and left me lying in the dirt with grass stained knees, and we didn't talk for two weeks.
I stopped the car and turned of the engine, which seemed to sputter as if flooded, and turned to my wife, because there was no where else to go. Everyday when we both returned from work, we would sit at the kitchen table and relate our days to each other from the moment we left to the moment we returned. She was so small the seatbelt seemed as if it didn't even touch her. We would sit in wicker chairs on the front porch in the summer and read for hours until we heard the rumblings of our empty stomachs.
Most of the lights were out in the city. We used to guess what the other was thinking. I had to drive slow in the water and at one point I thought we might have to get out of the car and swim. We loved to stay up all night and then sleep all day on Sunday. She sat in the passenger seat and gazed out the window as if the landscape was on fire. Our favorite moments were when one of us couldn't think of anything to say. We were the witnesses to a great catastrophe, flooded cars, frozen traffic jams, burnt out street lights. I've never forgot the way her hair curled around her ears and brushed the top of her shoulders on the day we met. People stood in doorways and watched from windows as we drifted down streets and seemed to float down streams. She always reminds me to put my glasses on while reading instead of squinting and furrowing my brows. I wasn't sure what we were looking for, because I was not sure what had happened, but I knew my wife had witnessed something beyond words. She used to fold her hands politely in her lap when someone was talking to her, but never when listening to me.
I watched her from the corner of my eye as she nearly leaned out the open passenger side window, wondering if she might suddenly climb through it and splash into the street. I always laugh when she laughs, even if I'm unsure as to why. [italics] What happened? [italics] I asked her when we reached the park and the center of the city, because if we were to drive further, we would start leaving the city behind. She keeps a hand carved wooden box that her father made on the mantle in our living room and places every note I've ever written her within it. [italics] The Light [italics] she repeated, and I wondered if I would ever understand what this Light was. My best friend from school once told me he wanted to kiss her, before we started going together, and I wrestled him to the ground. The park was drained of water and the trees stretched up in attempts to blot the buildings from sight. He shoved me off and left me lying in the dirt with grass stained knees, and we didn't talk for two weeks.
I stopped the car and turned of the engine, which seemed to sputter as if flooded, and turned to my wife, because there was no where else to go. Everyday when we both returned from work, we would sit at the kitchen table and relate our days to each other from the moment we left to the moment we returned. She was so small the seatbelt seemed as if it didn't even touch her. We would sit in wicker chairs on the front porch in the summer and read for hours until we heard the rumblings of our empty stomachs.
