She Might Have Forgot
On the two-lane canyon road from Boulder to Estes Park you won't see many people. You might see a deer. You might see the flattened carcass of a small rodent being picked apart by birds that scatter as your car approaches. All I could see was the deafening look of indifference on her face. Not one thought of me, good or bad. Only the effort she expended on being oblivious caused her face to have any expression at all. Things would be over as soon as we crossed the imaginary plane into the Estes valley. For now, we drove suspended between coupled and single in a 45-minute canyon.
"Could you pull over? I need to take a piss." One curve, two curves, no brake, no easing of the accelerator. "Hey could you—" She might have sighed.
The car eased onto the gravel-covered shoulder and stopped in a series of small skids. Still no look from her, only the rapid clicking sounds of the emergency brake being pulled up. An utterance was directed towards me. It said, "Hurry up."
The air that was hot, humid, and suffocating in Boulder had been replaced with the cool minty scent of twilight in the mountains. The scurrying eyes of life among the trees and boulders lining the canyon all bore down on me. Suddenly I wished for those dividers between urinals in public restrooms. I closed my eyes waiting for the arching golden stream of relief. Instead I heard the faint almost silent click of the button that released the emergency brake. Her car struggled through first then second gear in the thin air of altitude. I stood convinced that she had forgotten what she was waiting for.
Her car disappeared around the next curve. Relief finally came with the sound of another struggling engine echoing from down the canyon. I stuck out my thumb.