The Couple

They sit in the little, black, four door sedan. The fingers on one of his hands fiercely drumming the steering wheel, the other entangled in conversation with hers, resting on the console. He’s singing a song, his thumb tracing tiny circles on the tender part of her hand- the soft tissue between the area that forms the “L”. Her head bobs back and forth, gently to the music. Coldplay. I can see her mouthing the words, but that’s all. It’s the kind of mumbling you do when you don’t know all the words, but you love the song anyway. She breaks her grip from his, pumping the window lower with both hands and Chris Martin’s voice suddenly becomes louder beside me, but not obnoxiously so. She pulls two cigarettes from the pocket of her cut-off, blue jean shorts, places both of them, simultaneously, between her lips and inhales while holding a lighter to the end of each. Talent. She extends her arm in an unspoken invitation to him to take one, before placing her feet against the dashboard.


I can’t help but think of the marked differences between them. Him, in his plaid button down, khaki shorts, and hair groomed to perfection with just the right amount of gel to maintain his masculine stature yet tip-toeing on the edge of metro-sexual. He looks like he’s just stepped out of the fresh pages of a J-Crew catalogue. She, on the other hand doesn’t really fit into anything. Bare feet, accentuated by bright blue toes tap against the dashboard. Her shorts, bearing holes with various patterns of material peeking through are accented by a flowy, floral print top. She wears a belt over the shirt, the buckle forming the shape of a skull. It seems she’s fond of bracelets. Both arms are nearly covered from wrist to elbow with them- all kinds. Some plastic, some look home-made, others are thick and have words etched on them. Words I can’t read. They dance up and down her arm and she twists the tendrils of her long, brown hair.

By this time, it appears the light is stuck. We’ve been sitting here for a while. It didn’t seem to be an issue at first, but now…I guess wherever they’re going, it’s suddenly of greater importance that they get there. Soon. Or maybe they’re just tired of wasting their gas.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck is taking so long? We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes!

She’s right. Coldplay, The Weepies, Vampire Weekend. Three songs. We’ve been sitting here for the duration of three songs, so roughly, ten minutes.

I don’t know, but this is ridiculous. Where are the fucking police when you need them? God- I hate small towns. For this very reason. We don’t have to deal with this shit at home.

Home. I wonder where home is for them. Obviously somewhere far removed from the inconveniences of rural life. Maybe they got off the interstate too early and found themselves in the middle of a real life Mayberry. Maybe their GPS lead them through Here on their way to There based on their instructions to find the quickest route. Her phone rings.

Hey- yeah, we got off to get gas, and the GPS changed and said there was a shorter way, and now we are stuck in some goddamn hick town because apparently Billy Bob or Bubba-Joe one doesn’t know how to fix a fucking STOP LIGHT. I swear to GOD, I’m taking this bitch back to the store. It’s defective. But, yeah- we’re on our way. It’ll probably be late tonight before we get in. I’ll call ya and let ya know.

She hangs up the phone. They are separate beings now. No touching, no singing to the music. But, they are together in their anger and frustration. He pecks at his own phone, mumbling something about having to iron his suit at three in the morning, hoping the place has an ironing board. She doesn’t care. She is so beyond caring at this point, it’s so clear to see. It’s as evident on her face as the tattoos are on her bare shoulder and feet.

A familiar song starts to play forth from the stereo in their car, but somehow- it just doesn’t fit. Suddenly and inexplicably it fills the air around them and they start to laugh. Hysterically. She reaches over to turn it up and soon the only thing audible is the voice of Miley Cyrus, screeching out from the speakers. They laugh some more.

What in the hell is this doing on your iPod? She says, playfully punching his arm.

Don’t hate! It’s catchy. Everybody likes this song! He’s a little embarrassed, but hides it well.

No- everyone most definitely does NOT like this song.

They both sing along now. And they both know all of the words. He gets out of the car.

Chinese fire-drill!!! He screams.

She follows and as they round the car, he catches her, her squeels of excitement filtering the space. He pulls her in close from the waist and picks her up, kissing her there in the middle of a town they did not know and a moment they did not foresee happening, but one they’re making the best of. I notice a small tattoo on his left hand- the one I hadn’t been able to see before. It said simply “live”. She reaches up and pulls his face closer and I see the same word on her own left hand. In the same spot- the same section his thumb had traced earlier. I realize it’s more than just a word to them. It’s a belief. It’s these similarities that tie them together, and in some situations differences can seem more noticeable to the naked eye, but they serve their purpose too.

I imagine them going back to their lives in the city, whatever city that may be. I picture them walking down sidewalks, hand in hand. Eating brunch at a little Jewish pastry shop. Reading books on a blanket in the park. Cooking dinner in a tiny apartment. Sleeping, each knowing that the other loves them for who they are already as well as whoever they are yet to become.

The light changes now. They’ve returned to their designated seats in the car, and are now driving away. Moving on to make memories I can only imagine. And maybe I should be offended at their scoffing of my home, the place I grew up. The place I make memories. But, I’m not- I can’t. They’re just people, like me. Just different people from different places, all of us having lives to be lived.