From a parking lot in the rain

Am I a god? You treat me like one (sometimes). But sitting in your car in silence, I don’t feel like one. When you cut off the ignition you cut the radio off in the middle of a song, but the lyrics continued in my head and minutes later when the finals puffs of smoke from the exhaust have dissipated into the night air, the chorus echoes in my head. My brain skips to the same lyrics over and over like a broken record.

I don’t know if it’s the record or the player that is broken. You would say it doesn’t matter but I think it does. The thoughts in my head are loud, making up for the space your voice used to occupy. Now, we sit in silence in the car. For you, it’s a comfortable silence. For me, it is not.

If I am a god, why do you make no attempt to know me? You do what you think I want, and I’ve stopped trying to convince you of the truth. Our arguments are based on logical fallacies, crippling under even slight examination.

You don’t tell me important things, so why should I listen?

Why would I tell you important things if you don’t listen?

I don’t know who began this painfully cyclical process, all I know is you haven’t listened for months and it’s culminating in this car, as I sit in the parking lot listening to raindrops begin to fall and I feel my face getting wet. I pretend it’s from a leak in the solid frame of the car.

Cold seeps in but I know from 10th grade chemistry there is no such thing as cold, only a lack of warmth and as I begin to make a list of things that lack warmth, all my brain gives me is your name in bold letters.

I guess you thought you were doing me a favor, it’s simpler for me to sit in the car but what you don’t know is that if you’d have listened you’d know that I’m scared of kidnappers, parking lots, and electrical storms. If you really cared I’d be in the store with you instead of shivering on the increasingly cold leather seats. I can picture you inside the store and the worst part is that you’re at peace. You don’t realize what you’re doing to me.

As you walked into the store, your loose shirt rippled under the pressure of the heater blasting humid air at the entrance, your sunglasses fogging slightly from the change in temperature. 

Now you stand in front of the freezer, pondering the selection of ice cream. I wonder if you’re standing in the dairy free section even though I know you’re not. And I know I won’t tell you when you get the kind of ice cream I can’t eat. Why would I? 

Our lives repeat 

like

a

cycle: I don’t tell you things because you don’t listen. You tune out my words because I don’t tell you important things. Under the scrutiny of a judge, our claims and stories would crumble. Slowly, the jury would realize we are both guilty of pursuing a relationship that, like the Ben & Jerry’s you’ll bring back to the car, is slowly melting into a puddle of resentment, leaving behind no trace of its once solid foundation.

Before I know it my thoughts are spiraling 

faster 

than 

an 

amusement park 

ride. 

And before I know it I’m in the parking lot, wallowing then running as I remember that there may be kidnappers. My tears mix with the fat raindrops as I realize too late that my carefully styled hair will return to its naturally frizzy state. You didn’t notice it anyway. 

I’m inside and I can’t tell if I’m gasping for air from exertion or panic. It suddenly hits me that you’re going to question why I’m in here and I will only be able to answer with mumblings of kidnappers and chemistry teachers and you won’t understand. My shoes squeak too loudly against the seemingly endless linoleum floor and I’m suddenly reluctant to find you. I barely notice that I’m about to bump into someone until I hear your soft voice. I was just on my way to check out. I didn’t mean to leave you so long, I’m sorry. You embrace me. 

A silent signal. I don’t need to explain myself to you. You don’t understand, but you don’t need to. 

The merry go 

round spinning in 

my head slows to a halt. 

We walk to the self checkout, comfortable silence surrounding us. The dry air of the store feels reassuring instead of suffocating. We go through the familiar motions of purchasing our small tub of ice cream—the perfect amount for the two of us. As I’m bagging the ice cream, I glance down. 

The words Made With Real Cream 

scream up at me

in bold red 

lettering.