Ezoic
Mark and I lay in the double bed under the blue and white quilt. Under the old blue-flowered wallpaper. Under the photograph of a small woman in a soaked nightgown holding a baby in the rubble.
The window air conditioner rattled. Outside, the vending machine hummed.
“Viv,” Mark said in the dark.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “About that night. Two years ago. For not stopping. You asked me over and over. And I wouldn’t stop.”
“I know why,” I said.
“I know you know.” He was quiet for a moment. “But I want to say it anyway. I’m sorry. I was running. And I made you run with me.”
I reached over in the dark and found his hand.
“You stopped eventually,” I said.
“You threatened to roll out onto the highway.”
“I did.”
He laughed. Then he was quiet again.
“If I hadn’t stopped,” he said, “we never would have found this place. Elmer. Jean. Gabby. I’d have driven to Salina. Checked into a Hampton Inn. Never known any of it.” He squeezed my hand. “And I’d have walked into Mom’s kitchen with no idea what to say. I’d have told her I was Mark. And she’d have looked at me like a stranger. And I’d have walked out. And I’d have kept walking out. Every time.”
