i’m wrong, right? but, most importantly, how can you not see how wrong you are? this, of all the qualms of our marriage, is the wrench that refuses to loosen the rusted bolt. this jalopy of ours needs more than a new headlight bulb. and that foggy night we nearly crashed into the gaurdrails, tires and arguments tearing through the small space we bogarted on 376— that’s nothing compared to right now— in our living room. arms flashing as if we were sparring for keeps. our daughter done with pleading for us to become cordial and upping her ante to matching our volume, one tiny arm outstretched towards both of us as if we were the swiper from dora the explorer, stealing something precious from her.
these professions of what each of us will never do, are never willing to do, always end up doing, have me baffled at how we could even expect time to accept us into its pattern anymore with how much we disregard its emperical laws.
i want to say that we are both right, but that’s never a proper solution, is it? so, one of us give in. spirits crushed and piled up next to the cans of discarded beers and joints. until the morning after, getting into the car, the headlight’s still out, the gash on the driver’s side door like a faux sticker you’d buy for looks at walmart. except this one isn’t for looks. and the car actually starts. the crushed cans and joints and arguments don’t matter. for now.
you say, “i love you, babe.”
and i say, “i love you, too.”
our daughter, with a smile on her face, dancing in her tiny seat to the engine firing on only three pistons.
and the jalopy actually shifts into drive, leaving the headlight for another day.
