Cosmo by Spencer Gordon

wasn’t being in love. And it was exactly what he’d been yearning to say, knowing through the heavy spring rains of ’98 that it was doomed, drawing them toward this quiet confrontation. The urge to see her had shrivelled during their extended time apart, they were talking less and less, and soon he’d begun to believe that their love wouldn’t have happened if not for the media’s meddling, the public’s demand for the beautiful picture of their pairing, which seemed so right. He felt a relief in voicing it, and they spoke in soothing tones, crying a little over what could have been and for the time they’d had, which he knew would stay like a damp, bittersweet chill in his bones. They kissed, slow and on the lips, the salt of her sweat beading there against his tongue. And then she slid the door open and left the van, gave a last small squeeze to his hand, called him Matty . He slept in Cosmo’s stale sheets until just before dawn, waking to a headache, to a clutching paranoia and regret: that even if there was no more thrill, no real connective tissue, no reason , there was still the past, and the fanatical force propelling him to hold her and envision some impossible golden future together, denying and delaying all the fine-cutting loneliness that was waiting high above, like a hovering buzzard, falling feather-like to rest and claw at his stomach.
    But that was all gone. That sun had set, and here he was. Alone. Healing.
    â€˜Happy to be here,’ he said again, before stopping the tape.
    He reached an intersection. A line of automobiles had stretched behind him; he realized he’d been doing ten or twenty under the limit. Dwelling on all that baggage. Journeying to the centre of something. Sporadic cars and trucks thundered by on the I80, most heading northwest. McConaughey waited for an opening and merged, throwing Cosmo onto the road and following the main flow of traffic, instantly disappointed that he’d taken the more popular route. He wasn’t about the popular route; he wasn’t about going slow. He was all about trailblazing, speeding along the road less travelled. He’d turn off on the first desolate stretch that presented itself, he decided, as long as it meant plowing south, toward the heat and naked expanse that sat between him and the vigilant border: a place that would reward his loneliness, and in its absence both absorb and forgive. He drained the last drops of his water and threw the plastic bottle over his shoulder, where it came to rest amid the camp and detritus of his life.
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    II
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    Boy, you done it now , McConaughey thought. Got yourself good and lost . He stuck his neck out the window and sent a long Texan whoop! toward the dry horizon.
    He couldn’t explain the sense of elation he’d been feeling since he yanked the wheel left, splitting to the south and roaring down a nameless road. The Dukes were cooking and jamming up some toe-tapping, extended psychedelia, Nugent labouring a pentatonic riff into ecstasy. McConaughey slammed Cosmo’s roof with his palm, another squeal of pleasure leaving his lips as the riff collapsed back into a bass-heavy, pickup rhythm. This was what he’d been waiting for: no destination in sight, no crowding presence, no phone, no email, no connection to anything but the groove of the music and the awful skyline.
    There was a passage he’d read somewhere, a long time ago, that came rushing back to mind. Something about the difference between a pilgrim and a tourist . Could have been from way back in high school, maybe, or while researching a part (or was it an Aerosmith lyric?). ­Basically, it said that a tourist’s travels were mostly physical in nature, that the roving tourist was seeing, experiencing, absorbing, but always as an outsider with home in mind. The itinerary was set in advance, and the journey gained momentum as a return, rather than a departure. McConaughey