The End of Us

by Peter Wild

We were miles from anywhere, the tank was nearly out of gas and the howling in the woods was getting louder and louder. But that wasn't the worst thing. The worst thing was your mother, harping on in the back seat like some deranged harpy about what a loser I was, how you could do better anytime you wanted, how I should count myself lucky, yessir, lucky to have a goddamn mother-in-law harping on at me while the howling grew louder in the woods outside. I thought: fuck, fuck, fuck. This is the end of us. This is going to be the end of us.

6S

Peter Wild, author of A Portrait of the Artist's Mate, makes his online home at peterwild.com.