How to Leave Without Saying Goodbye

By Kristin Tenor

Remember that afternoon you asked me to be your accomplice, your getaway driver, your ticket to freedom? Side by side in the front of your rusted Chevrolet—I, at the wheel and you, your parchment-thin eyelids closed in a state of ecstasy as the breeze caressed the downy fuzz upon your naked scalp. The musk of wet hayfields and decay permeated the space between us as we raced against time and the silver train bearing down the tracks. You wanted to see a man about a lawnmower, although we both knew what needed to be fixed was far beyond repair.