There’s no such thing as make believe
I started listening to an artist that we would’ve listened to on our next road trip—Cleveland Francis. He sounds like driving too fast down an empty highway with a guitar and a surfboard and towels and toothbrushes in the back seat. He sounds like a pit stop in Santa Barbara for an impromptu haircut and two iced coffees. Like a sporadic visit to a secondhand bookstore… lurking through shelves full of memoirs and outdated self-help psychology.
When the day enters afternoon and it’s still gloomy outside, I think of you... I feel you, actually. I feel your knuckles under the palm of my hand, resting on your car’s center console. I feel our silences—the peaceful ones—the ones interrupted by lurking thoughts and jokes and laughter. The silences that are interrupted by heavy sighs and scoffs when the music stops abruptly.
I look down at my phone and see there’s no cell service… no downloaded playlists… a truly frustrating experience when you’re on the Pacific Coast Highway with your windows rolled down. But it's a sweet sign, really. No cell towers nearby means I’m on an adventure with my lover. It means that, soon, we’ll be hanging string lights between trees and laying a rug near the fire. It means I’ll be squatting in broad daylight; relieving myself while there’s no passersby.
Before I know it, I’ll feel sunscreen clinging to my fingers. A truly frustrating experience when you’ve got limited access to soap and water. But my greasy, glowy skin is a sweet sign, actually. It means that, soon, I’ll be laying on the beach in my bikini. It means you’ll be collecting driftwood and walking over to me, taking sips from your can of lukewarm Yerba Mate.
Remember when we picked up that log and startled a family of tiny mice..? I want to be a mouse with you—living under driftwood—knowing when the tide will rise—learning when it's time to seek solace in the cliffs.
Those beach mice watched us play baseball with rocks and sticks.
I was the rock collector. And you were the athlete. You’d throw the rocks up, to the sky, and smack them into the ocean with your driftwood-turned-baton. I cheered you on… I cooed at your strength and precision and determination. It was one of my favorite pastimes.
I imagine us walking back to our campsite… sandy and red and tired… we rinse our feet and our faces. I turn on the speaker to play Cleveland Francis. And we enter a wordless flow state.
You stack some wood and start the fire. I gather the ingredients for our next meal. You climb onto the roof of the truck. And we prepare our bedding while there’s still some sunlight left.
You ask if I know where the flashlight is… Of course I do, my love. I’ve thought it all through… I run through lists for the both of us, remember?
Do you miss it..? My list-making..? Or do you finally feel loose and carefree?
I feel quite unfettered, actually. I feel untied and free. But I do miss feeling your body wrapped around mine. I miss feeling cold and uncomfortable and dissatisfied—then looking into your eyes and noticing my body loosen. I miss the feeling of my heart easing back into a steady state.