He drives 10 miles an hour down Galena Boulavarde. Sunlight filters through a canopy of trees, reflecting off the hood like the nervous blinking of an omniscient god. They don't speak, and he plays Dylan loud enough to drown out the heavy silence. She gazes out the window at houses she once dreamed they would one day own. He looks straight ahead, occasionally glancing at the beautiful flower beds lining the street. He remembers the flower poem he wrote for her, adorned with metaphors of unadulterated love, but that was so long ago.
She chews gum and occasionally pops it. There was a time when it was cute, but it became an irritant after a while, and now, it was just part of who she was. She pops the gum twice and smirks. He thinks, I don't give a shit.
It's just as well they don't talk. They are masterful wordsmiths, hammering out the deadliest wordponry in existence. Stiletto knives that pierce to the core of one's being, daggers that thrust into one's psyche, and broadswords that hack a skull wide open. They skillfully parry and strike areas that bleed out nice and slow. He reaches over and turns up the volume on the radio to drown out the impending cataclysm.
He remembers a night when the southern wind raided the peach orchard, covering the land in blossoms. The stars appeared like angels peering through the veil of night, envious of man's imperfections and free will. He recalls the scent of peaches, the aroma of wet soil, and the sweet, salty taste of her mouth. He can still feel her hair tangled in his fingers, the warmth of her body, and the enchanting words that made their moment magical. The moon cast its sovereign light over them, illuminating two beings in love.
She gives him a quick glance, chews another stick of gum, and rapidly snaps, pops, snaps. She flicks the wrapper away, eases into the hot vinyl seat, and allows her thoughts to drift.
He remembers a day on a ridge, where the lush green landscape unfolded, disappearing into the infinite blue sky. He recalls the cacophony of hawks, bluejays, robins, ravens, cardinals, cicadas, and crickets and how it mystically transformed into a symphony, a wondrous gift, from an unknown realm. Lost in the splendor, relieved of the emptiness that threatened to consume him, a pearl seemed to drop from the heavens and land in his palm. He was a blue-collar worker, an average Joe seeking answers in a universe too vast to comprehend. He wondered why he was granted such a blessing. He felt he didn't deserve it, but he accepted it. He remembers.
He pulls to the curb and meanders over to a cluster of peach trees. A cardinal is singing, and as he searches the treetop, his gaze falls on a perfect fruit. It dangles at the tip of a limb that seems to touch the clouds. The wind currents seem to lift him and set him on a branch, where he perches like the sparrows that often congregate in his skull and guide him in his dreams. As he plucks it, he tumbles. Awash in light, he is swept onto the lush green and softly comes to rest. He is grateful for everything, for the things in life that make no sense, for the mysteries he will never fully understand.
He ambles across the lawn and, upon reaching the car, offers her the peach. She acknowledges him with a slight nod, accepts the fruit, and cradles it as if it's the last piece of fruit on Earth. He recalls a day on a ridge where the green countryside unfolded and vanished into the infinite blue. He remembers the gift.
The breeze tousles her hair, creating ringlets out of her auburn locks, and he notices how vibrant the world around him is. He drives away in silence, the fragrance of sweet peaches permeating his being, his thoughts streaming into space, his body buzzing. He recalls a day on a ridge and the precious fruit. He remembers the gift.
