Recent writing

Espola Road leads us to Interstate 15. The freeways of Southern California, so entangled in the landscape as to almost reach a quality of myth. People place their lives in these concrete-and-metal hands on daily commutes, road trips, jaunts to the beach where they lie in the sand and bitch about nothing.

We’re headed to La Jolla Cove. I’m sure we could get there without getting on the freeway itself, but Tom’s not quite convinced that the city streets are the way to go. “If you want to get there any time soon,” he said, “you’re going to have to deal with it.”

 

He’s not being cruel. Just matter of fact. I finger my seatbelt, adjust my sunglasses, turn the radio up slightly. “Radio Song,” he says. “REM.”

 

“Yup.” He’s getting better with the acronyms.

 

Tom and I met freshman year. We didn’t like each other at first. That should have been my first clue that I would eventually love him. I had yet to learn that my closest relationships would all start this way, with disdain. Something about someone would put me off. That something was the possibility of love.