dixie

And the worst part, the very worst part, is how the lines are being drawn, you know? They're thick and meandering, detonating each cardinal direction as they go. I'm just afraid that soon I'll be standing tippy-toed on a patch of land as small as the palm of a baby's hand, focusing hard on the horizon to keep me from slumping into the ocean and drowning irrevocably.

So I'm moving from this place. Or maybe it's moving from me. Either way, I'm going.

And I'm on the road, driving down the highway with a car full of everyone I've ever been: a cretin, a home wrecker, a "dreamboat", a rebound, a thorn in a side, the life of a party, the love of a life, the death of you.

At night, the air in the hotel lobby is ugly with chlorine from the west wing's ankle-biter of a pool. The people checking in seem almost aggressively listless. If I could see auras, which I can't, I'm sure they'd be the color of soot. They're long-haul faces, worn down and sagging, begging to be refreshed.

I'm sorting the contents of my pockets, drinking gin from a stiff brown foam coffee cup. The receipts and straw sheaths go in a discard pile. The dollars are in descending order, the coins are by size.

I look at the money for a good long while. There's enough cash to last a few more days, not to get me all the way to the anchor coast, but near enough.

It's not all I have to my name. I have a debit card and a few swelling lines of credit, but seeing the money there, in smallish, exacting towers, my life feels finite. There's an endpoint. It's not here, but it's there, wherever that is. And that's good enough for me right now.


Download: Dee Dee Warwick - I'm Only Human (mp3)
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