Tainted

Your hands on the steering wheel as sunlight streams in the windshield, as the town rushes by the passenger window, as the desert wind wails outside the car like a mournful cry. I see you there in your golden beauty, and I wonder again why you bother with me, why you are here with me, and how long it will be until you leave me again.

Looming large on the corner of the intersection where we are sitting at a red light is a hotel. I see your hands clench the wheel tighter, and I know why, and it feels like a knife to the belly. Tainted are the memories of our stolen nights here, back when I was married and you were carefree and we both played recklessly with the emotions of those we were supposed to care about.

A muscle in your jaw twitches and I wonder if you're wondering how many others I met at the hotel during your absence. The knife in my belly twists, tearing me open, while images of faceless men who could never compare to you flash through my memory like accusations. You know far more than I wish you did of how poorly I dealt with life during your absence. I wish I could take it back, I wish I could take back the entire last year, and all the hurt and shame and anger that stain me as surely as the invisible cum stains on the hotel comforter. The psalms of regret and remorse play in a continuous loop through my mind, like the familiar verses of my childhood, in every cheap hotel Bible laying untouched and ignored.

In the distance, church bells mark the noon hour and the light turns green and we're off. The tension in your clenched fingers eases as the hotel is left in our wake. I wish again that the pain we inflicted on each other could be left behind as easily. The hotel on the corner is an ugly reminder of all the ways we fucked our love up. The scars we branded each other with are inescapable.