Issue Five

“It’s life itself, swinging around a rearview mirror,” she galloped, holding the steering wheel as if riding a horse. Strands of shiny red beads dangled inside her car. “They make you feel free, like you can do anything.”

“Could I skim like a stone across water?” he asked, glancing up at the beads. “I’d like to skim like a stone.”

“Being willing is the first rule,” she said. Long hair flew like the Concorde out the window.

“What’s the second rule?” he winked. Noticed pink toenails peeking out of sandals.

She grinned. “There are no rules.” He knew that. At first, he was playing.

They were driving for the sake of the weekend, looking for Saturday as if it had a face or house of its own. Weaving through shady trees, mazy highways, loosely packed neighborhoods.

The sky kept getting bluer. “Could I eat the sky as if it was a cracker?” he fished. Clearly, he didn’t understand the beads. Takes time to learn a new language.

“You could wrap it around yourself,” she said, willing to try.

“But could I eat it?” he pressed, reaching into a yellow bag of potato chips.

She smiled but persisted, “They’re keys. A certain stranger looks at you, and it’s clear they know about the beads. You’re connected; you feel alive, like all the lights have been turned on.”

“They distract me from the road,” he flickered. “They’re too busy and shiny.” He meant to keep it to himself, but it came out.

It was a matter of explanation: “When they sway with the motion of the car,“ she said, “the road turns to water. You’re floating.” He saw she was serious; remembered motion sickness.

You can’t teach someone to think. As heaviness spilled into her stomach, she got back on the horse:

“Haven’t you seen the bicyclists?” her voice became intense. It was a Hail Mary. “Red, yellow, black shirts. Bicycle bodies rolling around back roads. They appear out of nowhere, bloom, disappear. It’s the same as the beads. They’re connected.”

He paused before risking, “Maybe they like to ride bikes.” Stretched his legs, reached up, swatted beads at the red light.

Little pockets of time were starting to clump together like teenage cousins at a reunion. Energy was building. Words usually tucked in corners were falling out of chandeliers, lounging around on the dashboard, climbing into the back seat. Entire families of ideas without passports walked right in, no questions asked. It was chaos.

Finally, at dusk, she dropped him off in his driveway. Set him loose at sea, like a bottle. Sometimes you don’t see the turns coming, they’re perfectly straight.

When he went inside, he thought he saw his stove shift as if on hips. Cabinets stretched and yawned. “Happy to see me?” he asked. Never spoke to the cabinets before.

The blue rug looked up at him, waiting like water for a skimming stone.

“You,” he said, surprised, “I’ve been looking for you.”