It was a dark, cold night. The kind of winter night that catches you by surprise and snatches your breath away before you can breathe it back in. Even within my warm car, Clyde, my knuckles were cold. I listlessly steered my Charger through the moonless night in no particular direction, my thoughts drifting as much as Clyde was between the lines. I hadn't been sleeping much. There was something unsettled in my gut. And the pepto wasn't quite smoothing things out, so I'd decided to hop in the car, hit the road, and clear my thoughts, maybe get a Slurpee, peel my tires out in a parking garage...but none of it seemed to help. Like an obnoxious over-achieving cousin who shows up and criticizes my shoes, the feeling just wouldn't go away.
There aren't many times I would admit to this, but it seems whenever I'm deliriously tired, my car, Clyde, talks to me. Helps me sort things out. Like relationships or socks. But tonight he seemed particularly chatty, as though keenly aware of this restless state I was wallowing in....At least, that's what I thought as I drove deeper into the night. But now, looking back, I think he was trying to warn me, trying to tell me to turn around and head home.
If only I'd listened...
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