"Describe the morning light glinting off the ice along the highway's edge as you drive home to confess where you've been all night."
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Today smelled of unforgiving frost; murderous monoxide like a thick, disease-ridden blanket that kills everything it touches, holding the morning rush hour on Route 4, its insidious but deadly, silent grip; and the faint but unmistakable stench of cigarettes, urine, and vomit that seemed to simmer from the backseat of the cab. On any other day, I'd be fuming at the state of this traffic and no doubt talking the cabbie's ear off over the deplorable state of his vehicle. I briefly wondered if his sense of smell worked properly anymore.Strangely enough, I welcomed the traffic jam; I'd welcome anything that meant putting off the conversation that was waiting for me back home. If I could, I would instruct the driver to take the next exit and drive the 40 miles to the airport where I would book the next flight to Bora Bora. One way. But it was a fantasy and I had caused enough damage already. At the moment, I felt a wave of nauseous hit me like a million bricks and after a brief. one sided conversation with my chauffeur, I made the executive decision to lower my window pane. Despite the gas fumes and exuberant road rage that barreled into the cab, I was glad for the chilly breeze. I closed my eyes and drank in the winter air, sharp and dangerous.
Opening my eyes , I let them wander until they settled on the ice-covered railings alongside the road. The sky was completely devoid of clouds and the sun was merciless, even on that chilly December morning. As the rays beat down in a fruitless attempt to melt the ice, I watched as the stubborn winter icicles refused to dissolve in the presence of our powerful star. To call it a power struggle between the elements would be inaccurate. It was more of a dance; the sun knew his season had passed and now he steps aside to let the season of snow and ice have her turn. But while the sun will forever hang in the sky like an overzealous light bulb, the ice has a pitifully short lifespan.
As my cab inched closer to its destination, I watched the careful choreograph of light and ice; dots of light sparkled on the ice's surface, like millions of shattered diamonds placed under a massive floodlight. The dots waltzed around one another in glee as if they knew I was watching and were eager to impress. No two microscopic dancers occupied the same space, each step of the dance utterly and breathtakingly unique. I drank in the performance like a drunkard to booze, listened to opera the lights danced to. It was the tragic tale of the lord of light and the mistress of snow, two star crossed lovers always doomed to be just within each other's purview but never quite close enough to touch, to whisper in each other's ears wisps of longings and love. As the glittering dancers blinded me, I listened to their story; the lord and mistress suffered broken heart after broken heart, blissfully ignorant of the fact that one can kill the other while the other can only exist in the absence of the one. The heart wrenching truth to which the lovers were so blinded would set them free, but their hearts would never fully recover from the despair of hearing it. The narrator, so the story goes, had a choice to make: speak the truth and let the lovers attempt to live their lives without one another or keep the lie and watch them continually fail to be together without any knowledge at what it is that keeps them apart.
But the lights could come to the end of their tale, the cab lurched forward as traffic picked up and those shimmering story-weaving fairies brought their dance to an abrupt halt. I sat back in my seat and watched the world pass by in 60-mile an hour blurs of color, the frigid wind, now more powerful, whipping me in the face. Defeated and miserable, I raised the window and, with nothing to distract me now, I felt my thoughts forcibly dragged into my current situation, unpleasant and shameful. Unwilling to face it just yet, I tried to focus on the fairies and their sorrowful story. I wondered on how it cold have ended. Was there a happy ending somewhere in that misery? I hoped so.
It wasn't until I found myself, an hour later with a head full of fog, at the threshold of my front door that I realized the answer I've been looking for. My keys jangling nervously in my pocket, I already saw signs that Amber had gone through her morning routine; the recycling had been taken out, the gardenias had been watered, and the sheer white curtains of our bay window have been opened. Amber knew how much I loved the feel of the sunlight streaming into the living room, signifying the promise of a new day. I knew what awaited me behind the deceptively docile front door, with its holly and pine cone wreath, the one Amber and I picked out together. The keys stopped jangling. I pulled them from my coat pocket.
I would have to be the one to finish the story. I hesitated,the weight of my decision hanging over me like the blade of a guillotine aiming for my neck.
What to choose?
Honesty or discretion?
Heart breaking truth or soul tearing lies?
Unfulfilling oblivion or painful existence?
