I hate getting bitch slapped

I just made you up to hurt myself
Yeah, and I just made you up to hurt myself
I just made you up to hurt myself
Yeah, and I just made you up to hurt myself
And it worked
Yes it did!
There is no you, there is only me
There is no you, there is only me
There is no fucking you, there is only me
There is no fucking you, there is only me

Oh Trent, you rock.


*****


My headlamps reflect off the fog hovering above the roadway. It's dangerously mesmerizing, especially paired with the rhythmic bass pounding through the stereo speakers. I can't really see much ahead of me; I am swallowed up by the mist. It's an appropriate metaphor for me, for I haven't given much thought to what lies ahead, and for all purposes erasing what's left behind me.

How many times have I thought, "I wish I could just keep driving"? Tonight, I do. I think the car made the decision for me. I must have missed my turn in the fog. I kept waiting for a place to turn around, but I never saw one. I can't see anything but the glow of my lights betraying me.

I'll stop when I run out of road, or run out of gas, whichever comes first. There'll be one of those roadside bar and grills, which is just fine because at that point I'll really want a drink. A man at the bar watches me—I can see him out of the corner of my eye, so I turn my head to catch him in the act. He doesn’t flinch; the light in his eyes flashes bright while they say, "dare me." I get a heady rush and fight my initial urge to demur. Instead I am brazen and just smile sweetly to disarm his gaze. He smiles back.

We talk across two stools for a while, until he orders another round for us and moves to the one next to me. He has a handsome face that wears the stubble of a long day well. A dark suit makes him look like a businessman, but his tie is loose and his shirtsleeves are rolled up suggesting he's not uptight. Tan forearms look so sexy as they peek out from the snow white, crisp, starched cotton shirt, with dark hair trailing down to a gold Rolex, and a soft manicured hand clasping a bottle of Bud. No lite beer for this man, he's for full flavor. I giggle at my naughtiness before I can catch myself.

He asks me what is funny. Nothing, I say, I was just admiring his watch. He traces the shiny band with an index finger, and tells me it was a reward for job well done. I imagine that finger sliding across my own skin and shock myself with how wet that idea makes me. Suddenly my wine glass holds a fascinating appeal.

You must be very good, I tell him. I am shameless, but I can't help it. It feels so good. I am a snowball rolling downhill, gathering mass and speed.

He doesn't miss a beat. Dark eyes meet mine; the air between us is thick like toffee, slowly stretching, like the playful smile that spreads across his face.

Wouldn't you like to find out? He asks.