Given the maples, the old street signs,
and that sketch from
last year, hand-drawn on an old road map,
they should have been able to escape
(if anything, because escape is not that ­difficult to begin with).
They should have been able to drive – escape, rather, as it was he who coined the term – and put everything that shouldn't exist ­behind them.
This, however, is not the story.
(of course, because
if what “actually happened”
always did, then no one would
have anything to say, would they?)
He lights a cigarette and feigns nonchalance.
She almost snaps as she stares at the open air,
resenting all of his open claims and ideas. He is
as foolish as a child. “We'll get
there,” he had told her, puffing away. “Lost is
temporary.”
Who could doubt the
wisdom of such a pair? But she
sighs and looks at him sadly,
thinking that maybe he does know.
Maybe he does. Maybe he knows this road.
Knows this path.
Knows this area of the countryside where ­apple trees grow like weeds.
But she is going to
leave
(the word is still foreign to her tongue)
him when they get home,
(if they get home)
for a life of a beauty and mystery and ­exploration is only
lovely for so long. And then it is
punishment, in a sense.
Uncertainty in the sense of freedom makes one
prison to their own confusion and ­displacement.
Because while maybe he does know,
(maybe he doesn't).