November 5, 2019

"I blame my hair on New Jersey,” I say on the drive north

It’s the traffic, I whine. All these SUVs hogging the highway. And the tolls! I bellow
as the tally mounts, grinding out more grievances as we near the state line. I pass
fingers through a clutch of unenthusiastic strands. Outside, autumn is winding down,
shedding its last few shades. The sky looks disappointed in itself, scuffed and sagging. 
Perhaps I’ve expected too much this late in the season, the plummy images of summer
bearing a luster that haven’t the stamina to keep their curl. I am always thinking of 
some version of the story with better lighting, where a breeze is blowing cinematically
and everything glows, as if freshly grazed by dew. My wife reaches past the head rest,
places a hand at my neck. Her eyes are always on the road, always at the chapter 
that reads, “Here. Now." I think, she murmurs, you need a shower.