Leaving the party, I was dizzy and numb. A laugh lingered on my lips, smoke without fire, fulfilling social expectation, parading what wasn't as if it were. As a favor, you took me for a ride down Lake Shore, pressing highway speeds. The semi-lit buildings loomed and passed in waxing and waning focus.
You asked for my hand, rejected the hypothermic limb dancing in the mid-autumn chill. Your dominant fingers soon laced my passive. I waited for some sense of connection to match yours.
You spoke of traffic, work, the role of art in the life of a working class stiff. I responded in sharp laughs, silences filled with the rush of wind. With what passes for fervency in an emotional flat-line, my inner mantra begged you to kill me with your car.
In this manner, we flew past the marina, other motorists, my exit. We neared your apartment and the inevitable invitation; I knew your expectation like a physical presence. I wondered if you knew my emptiness from your own echoes, or if you thought them an identical intent reaching out across the void.
