The drive down was hell. Hellish. Hell on wheels. My wheels. My GTO. My goat. Got my goat. Got on my last nerve. Nerves. Nervous.

He wouldn’t shut up. Couldn’t stop talking. Talking about her. What they’d done together. How he’d felt about her. Then. Later. Now.

Twice I’d stopped unnecessarily. Stopped to take a whiz. A whiz, I’d said. But I didn’t really. Didn’t have to go. Just needed a break. A break from him. Breakin’ up is hard to do. A break from the story. A break from the sequel. Now that we were on our way to the finale. The final curtain call.

I hated to hear about it. Hated to hear it. Especially how they’d done it. Done the deed. The dirty deed. She made it dirty. Unclean. Unclean. Bring out your dead.

Now she was dead. Grateful Dead. I was grateful she was dead. Gone. Gone bye-bye. Pushin’ up daisies. Six feet under. And maybe six feet ain’t so far down, like the radio says. Not far enough. Never far enough.

Not far enough away to leave him. Leave him alone! His grief is awful. Full of awe. Awful to behold.

I hadn’t been there. Couldn’t have been. Before my time. My Vecchio time. Didn’t have the time. I was still being Kowalski then. Not there. Hadn’t been there. Hadn’t been there for him. When he needed me.

But Vecchio had been there. Had been there for him. Had mortgaged his family home for him. Musta loved him. Must have hurt to watch him love her. I hate her. I wasn’t there, didn’t do that, didn’t get the frickin’ T-shirt.

Mortgaged the family home. Recited a stupid poem. At the zoo. Someone told me it’s all happening at the zoo. Admiral. There be whales here! All the details. Too much detail. I didn’t want the details.

How they’d almost died. How he’d sucked her fingers. Stopped her reciting with ice-cold kisses. How she’d fumbled to undo his clothes with frigid fingers. How she’d still felt Hades-hot when he slipped inside. Spilled inside. To get the blood flowing. Heh. Is that what the kids are calling it now? Never heard that one before. Didn’t want to hear it now. Don’t want to hear it ever.

And the drive home was worse. The silence. The almost-silence. Silent except for the murmured poem. The rhythm clashing with everything. Everything I play on the radio. Everything I thought I knew. My own thoughts. Thinking about yesterday. Yesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away.

It’s ironic. Isn’t it ironic? Moronic. That someone from Alaska would end up dead in Florida. Florida. The sunshine State. State of affairs. His affair.

Opposite ends of the country. Ends of the earth. This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper. But he had banged her. Back then. Then again later. And she’d rewarded him with a bang. A big bang. In the back. He still bears the scar.

The scar I saw, felt, touched, caressed. Last night. At the motel on the beach. Cheap for off-season. Felt, kissed, loved. Loved him forever. Why now? He knew. Always knew. Why now? Why fuck me for comfort. It wasn’t me that’s hurting. Love the one you’re with, I guess. Love the one you’re with.

Or maybe he’s just some kinky ol’ drama queen who can’t get it up unless there’s great tragedy involved. A bank robber. A married bounty hunter. A traitorous hockey hero. A lying, vengeful, premeditating gambler. Did he ever have a normal relationship? Hi, Honey. I’m home? Home is where the heart is. Home is where the hearth is. Is this who he is? Is this who I’ll be? Who am I when he’s not around? Who are you? Who? Who? Who? Who?

I watched him at the gravesite. Flustered. Grieving. Heaving chest and heaving breath. Couldn’t decide. Action guy, paralyzed. His knowledge. His great, fucking store of knowledge left him paralyzed with inactivity. What to do? What should he do?

He’d paced the grave. Kneeled beside it. Prayed and cried. And prayed again. In English. In French. In that Ukty-tukty language he sometime used with Dief. He’d placed a small rock on the tombstone. And flowers. But not mauve. Not white. Burned a small paper image of… what? A crane? A cart? A poem? Something origami. Origasmi. Whatever.

He’d loaded the grave with perfume and candy and even frickin’ popcorn, for Chrissake! I didn’t think he knew her that well. Knew her at all. Didn’t know her beliefs. Probably doesn’t even know his own.

Too much information. Too many shadows, whispering voices. Faces on posters, too many choices. If, when, why, what? How much have you got? Have you got it; do you get it, if so, how often? And which do you choose, a hard or soft option?

He chose hard. And soft. Last night. Hard and soft. Both. You can have it both ways. Even if you can’t go home again.

He might. Someday.

She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Wasn’t wanted. Was wanted. Wanted in two countries. Why hadn’t she fled to Mexico? Or Venezuela or somewhere else she could have hid. Hid better. Not been found. Fled. Pursued. Shot. Shot in the back. Shot in Miami. Ironic. The whole damn thing stinks of irony.

And the drive home was worse. The silence. The murmuring. The dry-eyed stare. And nothing on the radio really distracts. Always something there to remind me. Remind him. Of her. Of me. He’s lost.

But he’ll find his way back. He does. He always does. Lost and found. Lost and found. And I’ll be there. I’ll be there. With a love that’ll see him through.

I finally switch off the radio. Drive in silence. Drive as if alone. For now.

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion. Gash this, motherfucker!