How I Wanted You to Find Me

Last night when you didn’t turn up I snapped my timing belt and
spent an hour listening to passing cars make the ditch brush hiss,
watching the earthworms coming up onto the blacktop looking for
a better place to dry out and die. The tow truck driver talked
forever. His shift was over in forty minutes, and if he delayed he
wouldn’t have to go out to rescue anybody else. I texted you as he
dropped me and the dog at the Motorway Motel, but you didn’t
respond so I got out of the cab and tried not to make a big deal out
of things. I ran some water from the sink into the ice bucket and
went to sleep on top of the covers. I imagined there were dead
bodies in the boxspring. I imagined there were U.S. Marshalls in
the room next door. I imagined the next morning I would settle
down and live here with a truck driver who was only home on
holidays. This is how I wanted you to find me. This is how I
thought I could make you feel sorry for what you’d done.

What You Have in Common with God

When I got home God was already in the living room with his knitting
needles. I asked him if he wanted some of my Cherry Seven-Up, but he
did not seem thirsty or amused. He wanted to talk about where I’d been
and how empty Corona bottles got all over the kitchen floor, and when I
tried to cry, he rolled his eyes and turned on the news. I asked him if he’d
use his superpowers to send me back to last winter where I could lay
awake again listening to the sound of your incoming text messages. He
did not answer. Instead he put down the scarf he was making and
gathered up the half a Lean Cuisine you’d left on the coffee table. He
didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night, and all I could think about was
how much he looked like you.