The Death of Love

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The Death of Love

When the man stopped the pickup, I assumed he was letting me out, there on the shoulder of the rain-drenched highway. It had happened that way before, and I knew I’d be stranded there for hours. I started to beg, but he hushed me with a wave of his hand. He got out of the car and walked around to the back.

Curious now, I turned to watch him through the back window. He removed the tarp covering the pickup’s bed and threw it on the ground, letting it flutter in the wind. Underneath were all these boxes, boxes full of books and clothing and yellowed pictures in fancy frames. A black piece of lingerie hung from a bowling trophy, poking out of a crate of white dishes. He pulled the gate down and climbed back into the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He looked far away, remembering something I couldn’t share. “Have you ever been married?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You’ve had a girlfriend though?”

“Sure I have.”

“You got one now?”

“That’s why I’m hitchhiking. I’m going to see her, at college.”

His left hand clenched the wheel, knuckles white, while his other turned the ignition. The engine chugged to life. “Do you love her?”

“I think so.” I cleared my throat. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, one day you won’t.” His teeth clicked together as his foot jammed the gas pedal. The tires kicked dirt into long muddy arcs, until finally we came free from the shoulder. The Pickup hurtled back onto the highway. I turned in my seat and watched as the boxes tumbled out of the back, leaving a wake of personal debris behind us.

“Stop that,” he said. “Do you see me watching?”

“Sorry.” I turned around and faced forward. I couldn’t look, but I could listen. Glass broke, wood splintered. Things were lost.

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