Interstate
Our last argument went on for 80 miles. We were on I-55 headed for St. Louis. I kept not knowing what it was about. “Babies,” you said. “Babies,” I said. “What babies?” Finally you got out and hitched a ride back to Springfield. Where we’d pulled off the road, I sagged against the shallow guardrail, watching 18-wheelers plow through their own turbulence. Crushed hubcaps jittered in the breakdown lane; lighter objects levitated. Once, a weather-bleached doll’s head rolled to my feet. Pale lips parodied an orifice, a single cracked eye stared up into the unutterable strangeness of the empty sky.
Photo credit: David Vernon
Fantastic story! Publish more of his work.