I. At the edge of the world there is a suburban car service station, masked attendants waving entry to dehydrated vehicles. I drove there today to touch the nervous mechanic with my eyes—I don’t know, anymore, where to put my love for other people. He averted his gaze; I examined myself in the rearview mirror instead. It was so humid at the service station, I began to crave my own spit. Once, I fell so hard for someone I was convinced I was driving off a cliff. Months later we went silent on the phone. I became my own traffic island, circling the lush green trees in the neighborhood. They are way too alive, I wanted to scream at their creator. II. When you can’t smell the dead bodies in the air, you pray to God for reasonable things: drive-thru Chick-Fil-A, bag of waffle fries, slushie at the 7-11 off the third highway exit. The only natural reaction is to tune the radio to the perfect station: the music, not the news, so if the world ends this afternoon, you will be the last to find out.
