once traffic started moving again. “Not everyone was built for life in Detroit.”
She chuckled, and I glanced over and caught her staring out the passenger window at nothing in particular. “It was never intended to be permanent for me, Carter,” she admitted. And the way her words rolled off her lips, I could tell she meant I was never intended to be permanent.
“I thought that, too,” I admitted, swallowing that acidic dread that her admission had evoked. It reminded me of those first few pitches at the cages—I had to step back, just to let them sail past, and I could gauge their behavior. Better to observe than get punched by a hardball travelling at ninety miles per hour. Just like this conversation. I stepped back. “My ex-wife was the spawn of a GM executive and his first administrative assistant. She could never leave this shit hole of a town, even when people started burning their own homes as an excuse to flee.”
“And you?” she asked, curious the way a new coworker or cab driver might be.
I chuckled. “My childhood neighborhood was swallowed up by the neglect and desertion that is synonymous with this town.”
“Sounds cool,” she said, but it didn’t sound convincing. At least she didn’t yawn. “Your parents still around?”
I shifted. “Dead. I inherited the house, it’s one of the last ones on their street, all boarded up and overgrown.”
“Huh,” she replied, staring out the window again for a few blocks. “So you were married,” she asked, but it wasn’t so much a question. “What happened, was it swallowed by the neglect and perversion that is synonymous with marriage?” She chuckled at her own question, but all I could manage was a smirk.
“Desertion. Neglect and desertion, no perversion.”
We laughed harder, and then she asked again, “What happened?”
I shrugged. Another bottleneck of cars on Woodward. I heard the squawking of tires and high-pitched engines as people raced off . In the summer, automobile enthusiasts transformed Woodward into something of a production, with long-forgotten makes and models, and smoking tires at the intersections when the traffic lights turned green and it was safe to hold the gas pedal to the floor. Tonight wasn’t a Woodward Dream Cruise night, not even close.
I decided to finally answer Violet’s question, hoping to conceal the little bit of regret that remained. “That’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times.”
She turned her attention to me as we reached Birmingham. “Do you blame yourself?” She seemed curious.
“No,” I sighed. “I blame her. Almost exclusively.”
“Wow,” she admitted, surprised, and I noticed that the curiosity had gone.
I clarified, “For lying to me and playing games and chasing a checklist of things she could touch instead of accepting and appreciating the things only your heart can feel.”
I heard the grin in her voice when she said, “That’s sweet, Carter Borden. You’re a poet with words like that.”
I caught myself grinning as well, and I turned onto Old Woodward in Birmingham, then I made a quick left onto Brown Street.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, sliding her hand on top of mine.
“A drink,” I admitted. “And food, if you’re hungry.”
She smiled and seemed a little relieved that I wasn’t taking her to meet my childhood.
Yet.
We started at 220, ordered a couple of drinks—a mojito for Violet and a dirty gin martini for yours truly. The place was crowded with a bunch of mid-lifers, people who had spent their weeks in airports, boardrooms and corner offices. They looked worn out, drained, even on a Saturday full of drinks and steaks and laughs in this trendy restaurant that only seemed to get louder and louder with each party that walked in.
“I can barely hear myself think,” Violet yelled, leaning across our table. Her eyes looked tired from the travelling and tonight’s show.
When our waitress arrived, she asked if we
She chuckled, and I glanced over and caught her staring out the passenger window at nothing in particular. “It was never intended to be permanent for me, Carter,” she admitted. And the way her words rolled off her lips, I could tell she meant I was never intended to be permanent.
“I thought that, too,” I admitted, swallowing that acidic dread that her admission had evoked. It reminded me of those first few pitches at the cages—I had to step back, just to let them sail past, and I could gauge their behavior. Better to observe than get punched by a hardball travelling at ninety miles per hour. Just like this conversation. I stepped back. “My ex-wife was the spawn of a GM executive and his first administrative assistant. She could never leave this shit hole of a town, even when people started burning their own homes as an excuse to flee.”
“And you?” she asked, curious the way a new coworker or cab driver might be.
I chuckled. “My childhood neighborhood was swallowed up by the neglect and desertion that is synonymous with this town.”
“Sounds cool,” she said, but it didn’t sound convincing. At least she didn’t yawn. “Your parents still around?”
I shifted. “Dead. I inherited the house, it’s one of the last ones on their street, all boarded up and overgrown.”
“Huh,” she replied, staring out the window again for a few blocks. “So you were married,” she asked, but it wasn’t so much a question. “What happened, was it swallowed by the neglect and perversion that is synonymous with marriage?” She chuckled at her own question, but all I could manage was a smirk.
“Desertion. Neglect and desertion, no perversion.”
We laughed harder, and then she asked again, “What happened?”
I shrugged. Another bottleneck of cars on Woodward. I heard the squawking of tires and high-pitched engines as people raced off . In the summer, automobile enthusiasts transformed Woodward into something of a production, with long-forgotten makes and models, and smoking tires at the intersections when the traffic lights turned green and it was safe to hold the gas pedal to the floor. Tonight wasn’t a Woodward Dream Cruise night, not even close.
I decided to finally answer Violet’s question, hoping to conceal the little bit of regret that remained. “That’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times.”
She turned her attention to me as we reached Birmingham. “Do you blame yourself?” She seemed curious.
“No,” I sighed. “I blame her. Almost exclusively.”
“Wow,” she admitted, surprised, and I noticed that the curiosity had gone.
I clarified, “For lying to me and playing games and chasing a checklist of things she could touch instead of accepting and appreciating the things only your heart can feel.”
I heard the grin in her voice when she said, “That’s sweet, Carter Borden. You’re a poet with words like that.”
I caught myself grinning as well, and I turned onto Old Woodward in Birmingham, then I made a quick left onto Brown Street.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, sliding her hand on top of mine.
“A drink,” I admitted. “And food, if you’re hungry.”
She smiled and seemed a little relieved that I wasn’t taking her to meet my childhood.
Yet.
We started at 220, ordered a couple of drinks—a mojito for Violet and a dirty gin martini for yours truly. The place was crowded with a bunch of mid-lifers, people who had spent their weeks in airports, boardrooms and corner offices. They looked worn out, drained, even on a Saturday full of drinks and steaks and laughs in this trendy restaurant that only seemed to get louder and louder with each party that walked in.
“I can barely hear myself think,” Violet yelled, leaning across our table. Her eyes looked tired from the travelling and tonight’s show.
When our waitress arrived, she asked if we
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