Miles High

I sat there, at the picnic table, a cob of corn halfway to my mouth, and it occurred to me that I didn't know what day it was. Wednesday? Tuesday? Did it matter? I looked at her, across form me and decided that, no, it didn't matter.

Still, the question asked itself, as I was walking along that rocky beach in my bare feet, trying to avoid the half buried knots of driftwood, and I turned to look up at the cliffs and noticed a house perched on the edge. I could see right into the living room and could make out a figure sitting, facing the ocean, looking back at me. I waved but she chose not to wave back. Tuesday?

She got up and came into the kitchen where I was mixing myself a drink. I could smell the salt water on her skin as she passed me, and when she closed the door behind her I shook my head and laughed. Sometimes I worry myself to distraction and this time it was for nothing. I took my drink and sat down in the nest of pillows she had made for herself and I looked at the horizon. The clouds looked miles high and in them, I could see the first flashes of lightning. As the sky darkened and the flashes grew stronger I caught a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision and turned to see what it was.

It was Wednesday because I had the distinct feeling that the week was half over. She was asleep in the passenger seat with her feet out the window. It occurred to me then that we hadn't spoken a word to each other in months. She's either distracted or asleep and I looked at her and tried to decide if I should wake her up. It's not important, though. Not important enough to interrupt the dreams, or to break into her reveries. When she wants to say something, she'll say it. Until then I'll just keep driving, each day turning into a night and each night fading into another day. It doesn't matter what day it is and honestly, I don't need to know.

But its Friday, isn't it.