No Longer
And I can no longer remember if it was all a dream, or whether it really happened, and whether this girl was sitting in another car, when she fell asleep at the wheel, or whether she had been right next to me, and we both dozed off, while the car slowly cut through the yellow line, towards the meeting headlights.
And I can no longer remember her face, except that it was some kind of beautiful, and I wanted to get a closer look, although I probably should have run away, when I had the chance.
I do remember walking next to her, but not hand in hand, as I had hoped for, but more like friends, or perhaps with the potential for something else. And I remember studying her casual grace, as we were getting closer to her house, insisting I would see her home safely, and she laughing at my old manners, or perhaps rolling her eyes, if she was too young, which I can no longer recall, although I think we were not so far apart, in age, nor opinions.
She was someone I had known for a long time, and maybe forever, but this was our first night together, or perhaps the last, so when she said she had a boyfriend waiting, I remember thinking that it doesn't matter at all.
It was not until the headlights of the approaching car forced open my eyelids, that I realized we were heading towards a simple note in the local newspaper, or perhaps not even a mention, as these things happens too often to matter to anyone else but the people involved.
Had I really met her before that night?
I entered her house and there were a bunch of people I had never seen before, her boyfriend greeting me with some kind of hostility in his smile. She introduced me to everyone as if I were the guest of honor; someone even gave a little speech, although I felt more like an awkward intruder to an inner circle of friends.
Was she a foreigner? Was I?
I seem to remember now that I felt out of place, not only because I was a stranger in this group, but also because I did not speak their language, forcing everyone to use their unpracticed second tongue.
So did we meet on vacation? Had I been on holiday to a foreign country and met her by chance, or not at all?
Memory is an unreliable friend and lately we have not been on speaking terms for reasons I cannot easily explain. Sometimes I even think I've got it all wrong, that this story is heading in the opposite direction, like we are standing backwards on a moving walkway, gazing at the beginning drifting away from us.
I imagined their mistrust, sitting among her friends, probably blaming me for the whole thing, secret looks darting my way, when they think I cannot see them. All in dark suits those intimidating uniforms fit for a winter wedding or a funeral.
But I knew she was to blame, or we both were, but at least not only me. I could clearly see her sleeping face tilting forward as the wheel started turning to the left and into my lane so I was forced across the yellow line and into the meeting headlights. Why there was no sound, I simply cannot tell, or perhaps the memory of it all is soundless as in a dream, but I can easily recall the feeling of two cars leaning into each others as some kind of violent love-making, tangled bodies crushing the soft pillow we rested our heads on only seconds before. A metallic sound, I would imagine, so unmistakable and traumatizing, that you instinctually knew life would never be the same again.
So she was in another car, I must conclude, but somehow I still think it was not our first encounter, although it might have been our last.
Was she following me, or I her? Had we met in a bar and then decided to drive somewhere together? Perhaps to a roadside motel or a distant farmhouse, with closed curtains and only the front porch lights on; a shepherds dog waiting impatiently at the gate, muffled barks greeting us like a lover's ultimatum.
There is that smell of alcohol to consider. I could recreate that sickening perfume easily: Heavy breath of rum and coke, the hint of lime and a sweet aftertaste from all the sugar, slightly fumed by old ashtray smell, cigarette stumps bathing in a little pool of water. Rain? Was it a rainy night, a slippery road, dark and moist from heavy fog, or grey drizzling clouds hiding in the black sky?
Red taillights. I remember being mesmerized by those lonely eyes. I stared at them until I got dizzy, or sleepy, those steady eyes in the dark, leading the way towards somewhere I had never been, but always wanted to end up.
A winding road, and a forest view, or perhaps a straight line, with the chilled desert on both sides, and an ocean of stars above. The moon cool and mute, like it didn't recall its relationship with man, no footprints edged in its memory.
Was I trying to overtake her when it happened? Did she block my way and I had now choice but to ram my car into hers. Was it the other way around? Did I fall asleep by the wheel and pushed her into the other lane to save myself?
The sound of the approaching car, or was it a truck, two growing headlights filling the coupe and blending our eyes as if we were about to cross over to the other side. There must have been an alerting horn, a deep and desperate sound that could not be ignored.
Had she just felt sorry for me? Was there nothing between us but some kind of feeling of responsibility, or some kind of loose bond, created by a shared experience?
Do I remember her lips? And her taste of peppermint flavored gum, slightly concealing the cheap rum, or was it perhaps tequila, the hint of lime now replaced by sweet orange.
Was it too late to remember it all, too much time past, or perhaps too little?
I walked up those steps to her bedroom on the second floor. Got undressed and laid down under the white sheets.
Did she ever come to wake me up? Was it no longer so important to remember it all?
Was she no longer? Was I?
