Nehemiah
Ride//Lana Del Rey (Barretso Remix)
N: I'm outside
You: y??
N: I wanna go on a road trip
Maybe it's because life is slow and short, or maybe it's because you haven't seen Nehemiah in nearly 2 years, but when you get that text message, you throw a few articles of clothing into a backpack, text you roommate to feed Felix (only a few days; he's a pretty independent cat), and grab your wallet.
And the car reeks of Burger King and dirty shoes, but in a heartbeat, your focus shifts to the oafish man-boy in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel and bobbing his head to the music coming from the stereo.
The inquiries don't come until after you've tucked your bag under your legs and fastened your seatbelt.
"Where are we going?"
"Wherever you want."
"It's your car," you plead. "You choose."
"I don't know any good places to go."
So the decision is made that you'll choose first, and he'll choose second.
Your choice is a little pier, decorated with tourist shops and mini-carnival games. You part ways: he goes for for ice cream, and you duck into a Psychic's Parlor.
Esmeralda's Psychic Readings • Tarot • Palm Readings• Tea leaves• 30/h
And you've never been much of a believer, but curiosity is your burden in life, and you step into her layer, bead curtains parting and ushering you inside.
Incense burns your nose as you thrust your open palms towards her.
She rattles off something that any psychic could have told you, "You should be expecting a visitor very soon, accept the fortune that they offer you."
"What does that mean?"
"I'm not a translator, dear. I just relay the message."
"Oh. What else can you see?"
"It's time to purchase the object of your desires as soon as possible."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know, dear."
"Hmm. What else?"
"Ooh."
"What?"
"This one is a good one."
"What? What is it?"
"Renewal, for you comes thrice over, the waves, twice, and rescue, once over."
And you've never been much of a believer, but you've never been a skeptic, either, and the words dance cold sambas up your spine.
"What does that mean?" You ask, like a broken record.
"Dear, I have no clue. Most premonitions can be left to interpretation. Divination is never straightforward."
You slump against the backboard of the seat, holding 10 questions in your mouth like a gumball.
The psychic isn't finished. "Ooh. There's more. Your oasis will knock three times."
RAP RAP RAP.
Nehemiah sticks his head through the jangly beads clutching a dripping ice cream cone. "Whoa. This is cool. Are you almost done?"
The Psychic interjects, "My reading is complete. It was nice to meet you."
A trembling hands clutches a cool, steady one, and the psychic finishes, "I'm here anytime."
Nehemiah knows where he wants to go, he passes the second dropping cone into you hand and ducks into the nearest souvenir shop to buy a small map.
"So we're here, and I want to go to this diner called Burgundy's, right here. It'll be an hour, tops."
He doesn't scold you for putting your left foot on the dashboard, or question you wiping your ice cream stained hands on your shorts. He hums along to Don't Go Breaking My Heart, and weaves in and out of the line of cars on the interstate.
The diner is cold, so he hands you a sweatshirt that smells like paint and cologne. The waitress is pretty, and overly kind, doesn't dawdle when she delivers Nehemiah's burger and fries (you steal a few, unabashedly)
"How have you been?" You ask.
"Good."
His lips are smiling, dimples flashing, but his eyes tell you the real story. You know this conversation will turn into a silent match between you and him, but you are always hungry for the truth. And so, you move onto the next question before you can snap "No you haven't."
"Where have you been?"
"Visiting my Dad and my grandparents."
"That's good."
He gives you the other half of his burger.
The drive drags on until the sun disappears from the sky. He lets you wait in the motel room with your backpacks until he comes back from the gas station across the street.
The motel smells like cheap perfume and onion rings, but the beds are plush and the comforters are just the right amount of kitsch.
You rummage in your bag for you charger to restore your depleted battery.
When he comes back, it's with a can of Sour Cream and Onion Pringles, and his backpack slung over one shoulder.
"Nice." He mutters.
You sit on the opposite beds, facing one another.
He looks good. Handsome, as usual, sinewy and fresh-faced. His hair is newly cut, and his skin is tanned.
"I've missed you," he admits.
"I've missed you," you breathe.
