Saturday, December 13, 2008

with his one hand

with his one hand Evan can turn the wheel, adjust it just a little at a time, negotiating the highways almost imperceptable curve to the right. His body remembers this. Open road, the easy lean back in the drivers seat. The sound of the radio turned down too low to hear anything but a rattle of distant voices. Pared back. That is what he likes about driving, this cut down to nothing but a road and a view that changes just to keep things interesting, and the clamour of this thoughts relaxing into the room that the open road has made for them.

There is a pedal fitted to the accelerator that makes it just a small stretch for the break. He tests it now, bunny-hopping a little and the thing works fine. He is safe. Or not. It makes no difference. He might have died and that was fine. He is alive and that is fine too. He turns the radio up, letting the wheel slip free, feeling the car drag slightly towards the shoulder as he does so. There is a roar of laughter and a chatter of voices, too muddled together for him to untangle one from another. It barely matters. They are happy, they are laughing, everything is fine.

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