If It Had Happened This Way by Roy Coughlin
If It Had Happened This Way
We divide our things in the late-afternoon sun of West Texas, laying them out on the hot hood of the car, yours on one side, mine on the other. We work silently. All four doors and the trunk are open and the radio is on. You don't look at me when you pull your camera bag from the backseat and sling it over your shoulder. I don't look at you when I stuff a crumpled wad of notebook paper into one of my boots and set them in the dirt. Sweat fills the white undershirt I've been wearing for days, and a cloud of stink sits lazily in the air around my head. I hope you can smell it; I hope you choke.
Somewhere on 10 it fell apart. The vibration started slowly in the steering wheel but grew steadily, until I was certain the wheels were coming off. Then I realized I was the one shaking. "You stupid motherfucker," I spit as I wrenched the car to the right into an empty dirt lot beside the road, dust billowing beneath the braking tires, your water bottle rolling across the dash and crashing against the driver-side window. You didn't say a word, just took off your seat belt, got out, walked a few feet away and stared at the relentless Texas horizon. We froze like that: my hands all knuckles and veins on the peeling steering wheel, one door of the car open, and you squinting into the sun. Like old lovers we started moving at the same time, opening all the doors, pulling our belongings out of the wreckage. You laughed miserably for a few seconds then let the hum of heat and the rush of cars passing behind us on the highway do all the talking.
You wipe sweaty palms on the knees of your jeans. Straightening up, you look over the car at me, tired and angry. I remove my hat, wipe my forehead with the meat of my palm, and stare back. Suitcases and pillows, a guitar, shoes and beer bottles cover the car and drip into piles in the dirt. There's nothing left inside but the whine of the New Country station you insisted on listening to. I look away and then down. I hold my breath. When I look back you're pulling the upholstery away from a tear in the back seat, one foot planted firmly against the car, putting your back into it, your fists full of foam and fabric. I bend down and open the toolbox, take out pliers and a hammer, and go to work on the dash.
***
About the Writer: ROY COUGHLIN
Roy Coughlin is a writer, musician, and perpetual expatriate currently working up a new goodbye in Portland, Oregon. His work can be seen at le petit roi and Expat Recordings.
This is his first published piece of fiction.