As ever, they keep on driving,
and with her graceful foot on the
gas, she keeps asking him what
the hell it is that he wants.
From deep within the passenger seat, he guesses
it seems to her like what he wants
more than anything—is just
to keep on talking forever. He doesn't
bother to gesture, because she would only
be able to see it peripherally.
He just keeps reiterating vaguely
the hugeness of his terrible feeling
and the futility that haunts his imagining that
anything he might say
could possibly contain it, let alone
begin to adequately describe it. Rounding
the curve now and accelerating
together in a fixed straight line, he doubts
out loud whether explaining this
to her will ever mean the same thing
as doing something about it.
And further, whether whatever he did
could really end up meaning
exactly the same thing
to both of them. A cumbrously air-
conditioned moment later,
he at last manages to imagine
being her, specifically, the exact physical feeling
of her dry lips cracking a little upon parting
to start, but not
finish, the following
sentence—Anything is possible.