I don’t want you to become a story, a memory I recall about my crazy twenties.
You’re in the driver’s seat next to me and the windows are open. You have a sly grin on your face because you know you’re annoying me with your singing. Your dark hair has recently been cut, exposing the tanned skin on your neck that I notice when I slide my palm around it. It’s August in northern Italy, so the streets are completely empty, as everyone has made a mad dash for the sea. No one will notice if you drive a little faster – since the road ahead of us is completely empty.
We’re on our way to some small town 200km away on the coast. I convinced you to go after I read about it last week. I convince you to do a lot of things, it seems. Maybe it’s because you know that a few weeks from now, you might never see me again – so you’re trying to memorize every detail of my face, every reaction, every moment that we spend together in this hot car – or maybe it’s just me.
We stop at a ice cream shop, gelateria, because thanks to you, I’ve also developed an addiction to the myriad of flavors begging us to have a taste. We always choose the same. I’ve memorized your order, and you know mine. If we always choose what we’re comfortable with, why did we choose one another?
I don’t want to find a photo album 20 years from now, with this trip documented on the inside of it. I don’t want you to be a story I tell my kids one day…”when I was your age, I was in love with this incredibly handsome guy…”
I don’t want this to fade into nothing.
I’m at a crossroads between a career and love, and the two things happen to have a body of water in between. Unfortunately that body of water is the Atlantic Ocean.
So what if I choose the irrational option? The stupid girl who stayed for love. The one that gives us one more road trip, one more ice cream, and one more horrible rendition of your favorite song on the radio.