It would have been less of a memory, less of a moment – could even be it might never have come to pass – if it hadn’t been for the sound of my laughter.

The sound of my fucking laughter, over the roar of the engine. Over the litany of sounds, over the feel of the fast lane, over the rush of windows down, east on the I-10 corridor, Mississippi a green blur as the odometer pushed past 100, strands of jet black coming loose from Raven’s lengthy pony tail, whipback against a slender neck that was no stranger to cradling my smile, late evenings when a kiss good night would lead to a dozen or more, their own lips presently spread in a pearl diamond necklace, lethal grin joining in with unhinged mania, sounds from their mouth coupling with mine, each time, sandal to accelerator, and the spirits in the backseat would have witnessed dark irises in the rearview dilating, as they always did, every time we would both laugh together.

Because Raven had declared that We’re going to Buc-ee’s! with such kinetic volume, even as I bobbed my head in stupid fascination, even though it was only Buc-ee’s, the Disneyland of truck stops, pit stops, all stops, promising the experience of a mini-mall in the middle of nowhere, shopping, fast track dining, so similar to the unexceptional mini-malls, shopping, and fast track dining back home, and the only difference, the only way I would have possibly allowed myself to go on such a senseless adventure, was Raven, their instance that You’re going to fucking LOVE it, because of all our plans, either hatched late-night over cigarettes and Irish whiskey, or sent as grandiose pronouncements over text messages that brought swift heartbeats to our respective lives in the middle of overflowing days, this was the one that was finally happening, launchpad for all the other journeys to follow; evenings on the beach, shared baths in a French Hotel, fully clothed with empty bottles of Pinot floating between us, that train ride through Scottland, stations and destinations based entirely around distilleries that most Americans would never hear of, blends and single malts, aged to perfection, slow sips of our future, all those scenarios, all of it would start, unbelievably, with Buc-ee’s, and the notion drove us both mad on this drive, Raven laughing wildly through the pull of a nearly spent cigarette, smoke billowing from their mouth along with the words I love you, tailspin of oversaturation, overload of the moment, words dragged from my own unguarded depths in a blatant retelling of what Raven had just confessed, all that ever mattered reduced to that one singular instant when I told them there were so few that I had ever loved quite the same way that I loved you, Raven.

And the very next instant, I heard their foot go slack on the gas. Not just the sound. Not just the engine taking a break. Deceleration has a feel to it. A certain inverted rumble that comes with the tail end of a dying conversation. Wind-down of a stand up fan that’s been turned off for the night. A slow realization that hasn’t even begun to pick up speed.

I glanced over to my left. Idiot grin still plastered to my idiot face. Feeling the wrinkles, creases on either side of my mouth remain through the erosion, because my smile refused to leave. Even as my lips, tongue, teeth all switched positions to make an inquiry out of their name:

Raven?

Corner of my eye caught the odometer, creeping its beak from100 down to 90. Raven’s face almost commonplace, in some other space, as they replied, Yeah, sorry. Last night was wild.

And I had to blink. Think. Process what they had just said, their words emerging from some other conversation, so inexplicably free of continuity, that my own response felt compelled, extracted from that same, unnamable place: How have you been?

Not great, Raven said, vocals detached from their dispatch. Staring through the windshield. Words cherrypicked for minimal impact, as the car continued to slow. Just kind stuck in stasis, you know?

I didn’t.

And I found myself, once more against my own volition, saying: It’s been a while.

They nodded. I know, sorry.

I miss you, I told them, now realizing that this was not a case of magic displacement, quantum fluctuation, but rather horrifyingly enough, very much, just a conversation, as I tested the waters with: Thinking of the time we made a pact we’d never again let an entire month go by without seeing each other, ever again.

Indeed, Raven cold-shouldered, voice flat. Fingers slack against the steering as our wheels began to drift rightwards. Over the first set of white dashes and reflective dots. Miles per hour now dipping into the low 70s.

You still want to go to Buc-ee’s? I asked.

Yes, they replied, as though caught fielding my question while in the midst of some other exchange, deep into some other person. We’ll definitely do that, heart you.

Passing scenery in retrograde. Gone from an ecstatic watercolor wet, to signs, trees, drybrush so thoroughly defined, you could have pulled them out of a lineup. Lethargic hum of the tires as we straddled both lanes. Surrounding vehicles with horns blaring, axles swerving, break pads overextended, enraged at our waning, no warning, out of nowhere, without so much as an attempt to flash our hazards, as off-course continued, Raven’s navigation taking us into the slow lane, only now

our situation clocking in at so much less than road signs insisting, letters bold as love, MINIMUM SPEED, 40 MPH.

And myself, unable to even care about the cars behind us. One of them unprepared for how fast our orbit had decayed. How quickly things had come undone, no brake lights to alert the rest of the world of this sudden shift in gear. A single car, I could hear it, swerving behind us. Too hard, too fast in comparison. Tilting, wrong way into the skid. Flipping. Thunderous sounds of metal scraping against interstate asphalt. Another vehicle, SUV maybe, ramming head first into their back bumper. Enough to send what must have been a family of five into a three-sixty, chain reaction, loss of traction, and all I could focus on, all I could concern myself with, all my attention on my driver as

Raven persisted in their commitment to stare well beyond the windshield. Far away look on their face. Tires taking an uneventful relapse into the low 20s, then 10s, to the point where the dayglo needle simply went comatose, entropy accomplished, our car on the side of the road, rolling to a total and absolute stalemate.

Engine running.

Idling.

Not even in neutral.

Feeling the burn of my cigarette as it hit the spot right between my middle and index.

Cotton filter dropping into the cupholder, finding its bullseye in a bottle of filtered spring water.  

Unable to take my eyes off Raven.

Their eyes lost in some impractical present.

Smiling now, though. Well past wherever the abrupt end to our adventure had landed us.

Fingers sliding down the steering wheel.

Set of talons on their right hand accidentally catching the turn signal.

Bringing it to life with a dry, metronome tik and tock.

To this day, I live with zero certainty as to long I watched Raven gazing into whichever conversation had replaced ours, with whomever they had suddenly decided to chase down the rabbit hole. Watching them sit comfortably in the statuesque. Oblivious to my presence. Seatbelt fastened. Cross-your-heart across their breasts, traces of wasted ash still remaining against a white tank top, the only evidence left of what we’d shared.

And I finally ventured to ask, one last time, for old time’s sake: Raven?

And their reply was never meant for my ears. A barely contained giggle, slight bite along their lower lip. Yeah, sorry, I’m just really into you.

I remained silent. Still stuck on the shoulder of I-10 east.

Raven, again, replying to anyone but me: We should absolutely take that train ride together. Another endless beat. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, either. Press of my own seatbelt, sawing into my neck, leaving a red welt, as I witnessed their smile grow. Well, we could always just pack ourselves into my car and go to Buc-ee’s.

And then, Raven laughed.

The most familiar of all sounds.

There was a story in there somewhere, but it wasn’t mine to tell.

In the midst of all that still life, the sun had chosen to make a humiliated exit on my behalf. Unaware that it would have to, both sooner and later, come back around. Greet me once more, come morning, and all that another morning would imply.

Though there was no way to tell just where I would be by then.

Still stuck in this car.

Incidental rider. Passenger’s side, endlessly waiting to see if Raven might remember that I was still there.

Or maybe I would just open the door. Cross the interstate, past a memorial marker, wooden cross or two planted there to remind others that someone, at some other point, had once met their own untimely end on that long stretch between The Best Rest Stop In America and New Orleans.

But it was a disaster area out there. Absolute destruction. Carnage. Wreckage of countless cars with a claim ticket numbering in who knows how many more broken lives and fractured memories.

Sounds of my laughter imprisoned in the side mirror, some two miles back, and so many more miles between myself and an origin story by the name of Raven.

# # #

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so long and thanks for all the pish.