LOU RASMUS

Everyone in the car is asleep besides me. There’s snow on the ground outside and the sun is watching me through the window. Not one cloud in the sky. An old tune slow-steps out of the radio. Some song from before I was born, even though I’ve heard it many times in my life. Music transends time. I wonder if the road I’m on will ever end. It seems like it may not. I bet it does though. Somewhere. I’m sure somewhere it runs into another road, or a cliff, or some body of water that is too vast for a bridge. I don’t want to think about that, though, because open water scares me. Who knows what’s in there. But that’s besides the point. The song changes. It’s not like the last. It’s antsier. It makes me sweat under my arms and on the palms of my hands. I don’t like it. It doesn’t respect the tranquility of right now, what, with everyone sleeping besides me, and the snow on the ground, and the undisturbed sunlight watching me through the window. So I turn the radio off. That makes things better. It feels silent like it is outside, only it’s not so cold, which is good. It hasn’t been warmer than five degrees for a week. That’s fucked. I don’t know why I live up here when it’s seventy in Los Angeles. But then my sister wakes up and tells me to stop texting and driving. I tell her that I’m not texting. She asks me what I’m typing. I look down at this little ramble. I tell her that it’s nothing. I turn the radio back on. I keep driving. Only two more hours until we get there.