flower print dress

There was nothing.

Nothing like seeing her flower print dress, blowing in the wind, almost blowing goodbye kisses my way.

She was all composed and happy as could be and I wished I could match some of that as I changed gears into reverse and pulled out of the driveway.

I didn’t have anywhere to go, but as the car moved gravel underneath its tires, I could feel our connection stretch to the point of breaking. Like a rubber band stretched too far- no longer knowing what was home, no longer knowing how to be.

I drove to Blatt’s and sat on the barstool- well aware of the cliché and not giving two shits about it.

Gary, the bartender, came over and looked at me.

“Give me a Guinness Gary.”

“You sure?”

“Well you can put some bourbon in front of it, if you feel like it.”

He did.

The beer was OK, as was the bourbon. But everything was OK in those days.

I left the bar, played Bob Dylan, and wandered with no direction home.

There was an empty field nearby. I stopped and let out a few screams. They weren’t theraputic- I only felt horse.

When I arrived back home, I stopped the car, opened the door, and stumbled into bed, feeling alone.

I don’t think we ever recovered from that.

Now, years later, I find myself in the same city as the woman in the flower print dress. Looking at the rubber band, trying to understand.