Low and Behold

So once more, you're driven out into the rain. You're prowling the streets, cruising on black roads lit by orange sodium lights, watching the sweep of the wipers on a windshield that runs like wax.

It's the uncertainty that drives you out. Better to feel the rain pounding your face through the open car window, soaking through your clothes, as you speed your way through the night. Better that than staying in place in that old flat with the hiss of the radiator and the peeling wallpaper. Better than watching the digital slowly change numbers while waiting for her to make a decision.

You want her to make the right decision, but she's been weak before. You want to leave her and cut your losses, but you start shaking at the thought of her gone. And so you drive, the indecision fueling your rage.

You tell yourself that she may choose you--you hear the frustration in her voice when she talks about him, the longing in her voice when she talks to you. But you remind yourself that nothing has ever worked out for you--you hear the wavering in her voice when she talks about him too. She looks at you with desire, and it frustrates her that she has to choose. She starts to cry at the thought of you angry with her.

So of course, it's better to drive. It's better to stop the car eventually, get out, let the sheets of rain pour down upon you. It's better to imagine it cleansing you, washing the impurities out, flowing into the gutter. It's better not the think of the future, soaked skin near the hiss of a radiator, sitting, waiting.