Heading South on 333

We’re neutral, coasting now. Maybe we always have been. But I can think now, and that’s how I know I am - I always have been. My left goes down, and then we’re in second. She starts to cry at about nine thousand, and then we’re in third. We’re heading south on 333. 

The Sun is going down through the right quarter glass. It’s quiet here, quiet save the heart before me who’s beat drones and rips with each combustion. The air is salty and cool, though in spite of our velocity, rather than whipping through erratic and violent motions, only a breeze drifts and floats under the dying blue sky. It’s going to get dark soon. Our lights pop up; I didn’t do that; she did. She’s listening to me, or maybe we just think alike? Perhaps we are one and the same, or at the very least, she’s a part of me. She always has been.

We’re heading south on 333.

I look to my left at a pale blue sea which extends forever - blending with the dying blue sky. There isn’t a horizon to my left. I can see forever. It’s a little unsettling; I don’t quite know what to make of it. The waves match us, in color and behavior. They are which has traveled forever to gently run onto the sand, which itself runs gently onto southbound on 333. This world is a spectacular cacophony of pastels; such colors give me a sense of potentiality, though something is not right; nothing is right, but all is well. The double line is mesmerizing; this road extends forever. We’re heading south on 333.

Now we’re in fourth. A palm grows from my left and reaches across the highway. Then shortly after it: a street light which does the same. I pass one of each for each beat which passes through the cassette. The cassette is still playing after all of this time. Maybe it always has been. And now we’re in fifth. The pale blue light emanating from the ocean soon becomes drowned out by the dying blue sky as it’s lit on fire; the Sun has just dipped below the

mountainous horizon to my right. This, too, soon fades as a supercell moves in from the north. Maybe it always has been. We’re heading south on 333.

I can’t outrun it; I need to put the top up. Left goes down and my right goes down briefly. The heart rate climbs, and as it falls again we’re down into fourth. And then third, and as we pull towards the beach on our left we’re coasting. Maybe we always have been. Still in neutral, my left goes down again and the ratchet sound brings us still. The beating grows quiet and then

we’re in first.

It seems we’ve pulled off onto an off-white boardwalk, which terminates in an old diner overlooking the water. It was built in the late sixties, or maybe the early seventies? Regardless, it has been here forever. It was here in the beginning and now it’s there, where I am. Maybe it always has been. I enter through the glass doors, and a bell above me rings. I sit down on a pale blue stool at the counter, just as the first few drops of water begin to percuss  against roof and windows. They’re like the tears which fall so gently on the gentleman’s lap at the end of the bar.

“He’s been here forever.”

The bartender is bathed in a white light as she appears and then emerges from the kitchen. Her colors match the decor: a short, pale blue dress with white polka dots which dot the pale blue like stars across a dying blue sky. She wears an apron but it’s not tied and it hangs, like the man’s sodden eyes, at the end of the bar: downcast.

“What’ll you have,” she asks. “Eggos with syrup on top and peanut butter on the side.”

I don’t know why I say that, but what’s even more strange is how I do without hesitation.

“Hey, It’s what you want, darling. Don’t read too much into it.”

My eyes widen slightly. Did she hear me? Regardless, she’s right, it is what I want. Maybe it always has been.

“Where’r you headed?” I expect her victory curls to jostle slightly as she turns to put my order in, but instead they kind of float as if she were under water.

“South.”

“For how long?” She sounds uninterested, and I don’t fully understand the question.

“Forever. We’re heading south on 333.”

She turns right back around with my waffles. “That was quick,” I say as I pick up my fork. “They’ve been sitting in the window here. They always have been.” They’re torn into tiny pieces. I didn’t mention that this is how I like them, but that’s how they are. This is how they’ve always been. 

I finish my meal quickly as to not impose and I tip well. As I leave through the same glass doors through which I had entered, I glance back at the gentleman at the end of the bar; he’s still now, and of marble and clay. His tears have turned to solid glass and he is quite. Maybe he always has been. The door shuts behind me, as a bell above me rings.

It’s dark now, save the pale blue light which originates from the diner’s sign and bounces from the rippling puddles. Shit, the drop top. But as I reach her the top is already up, as are the lights, and her heart is already beating again: a “brap brap brap” welcoming me: new life, or maybe it always has been.Left goes down, and we’re backtracking. She doesn’t like to reverse. As my left comes up my right goes down. It’s a trade-off; I suppose most things are. My left goes all the way down again and we’re in first: my right slamming down and the left kicks out as we slide through the wet pavement and across onto an interchange. We keep turning, until we are perpendicular to southbound on 333. 

We straighten up as we cruise in fifth over the water now. The ocean extends forever on either side of us, meeting the black and painted sky. The rain

keeps falling and the lights reflect vibrantly from the pooling, though I don’t know from where either are coming. The sky is clear; the stars shine and dance - painting the dead blue sky, and the Moon hangs just over the road ahead of me, and yet still it rains and the lights originate from the dark. We’re heading south on 333. How can that be?

Maybe we always have bee