Into the Silence

by Michael Downing

The words ran out by the time we crossed into Ohio, and as we sat quietly at a rest stop forty miles later I longed to fill the distance between us but there was nothing left; at least nothing that mattered any more. The last thing she said lingered the way your breath hangs in the cold air of an early winter’s morning and the emptiness that remained was sharper than any insult either one of us could have used to hurt the other. While a steady stream of traffic passed, rocking our car as they accelerated on the interstate, I stole a glance and tried catching her eye. There was silence written in her expression, shaped by a vacant stare and the realization that years of memories were slipping away. I wondered how much of what we once shared ever really mattered to her, or if it had just been something else I misunderstood. I wanted to ask but the words never came; instead I sat quietly counting the miles left to drive while my coffee grew colder and my heart ached.

6S

Michael Downing is a writer of books, plays, and some occasional graffiti who lives in Georgia.