Silence

"You have to find a balance between the music and me," I tell my husband. "I won't be lonely. I won't go to that place again. You have no idea what it is like sitting at home every weekend with the children while you are out playing music."

He tries to mask the smirk that bares his teeth but the black night hanging over the country road isn't dark enough to hide what I've become accustomed to seeing.

"Every time we have this conversation it comes back around to the same question. Do you want me to quit?"

His grip tightens on the steering wheel. My oldest son's sleeping head falls softly against the door in the backseat.

"I don't want you to quit. I know you need to play. The only reason it comes to that question is because you make it. You make it black or white. Not me," I say.

"Okay, babe." He shuts down, maybe because he knows I'm right, or because he isn't ready to go there, or maybe because he doesn't believe it isn't me doing this.

I know loneliness doesn't ride on the back of silence. With the children asleep in the backseat, and the gentle jostling of the truck rocking my body like a Bill Withers vocal, words that will be written, never spoken, form in my mind.

You're away even when you're at home. You want to hit the snooze button again and again so your mind can chase a dream shared between old friends. I've never had dreams, only memories of a time when I could hold the pit of another in the palm of my hand and be loved for it.

I think you believe I'm asking too much when I'm only asking for just enough.

You don't like to read about intimate moments I shared with others because you know that you aren't creating them with me. You need a dream. I need a memory.

Perfect Timing

The singer's boot heel pounds the stage. My hip rocks, skirt swirling around my knees like smoke rising from a cigarette left in an ashtray.

Bottle to my lips, I watch the people at the table next to me instead of the empty dance floor. The girl with the shell necklace slides her feet out of her sandals and wraps them around the boy's leg. His eyes follow the curve of her neck while he talks to the man who grimaces with each sip of imported beer.

Tell me, Baby. The singer backs off the microphone. You got to tell me what's going through your head. The melody lures me onto the dirty white tiles.

He thumbs his bass, eyeing the crowd, watching their reaction as I ride the voice I've heard so many times at home.

I need you to tell me.

Barefoot on the front porch. He coaxes the swing back and forth, a silent bass accompanying his guitar.

What's it gonna be?

Lights of the highway hidden behind the cornfield. I catch the screendoor with my foot, two glasses of iced tea in hand.

You gonna come back home

Stop in front of the swing. Wait for the rock forward.

and stay with me?

Ten years. Perfect timing.