The one driving, the one who says that pussy’s pussy, is recently married. The woman he married works as a receptionist for a dentist. She is a good woman. She was born and raised in Wisconsin. She has alabaster skin. She is hoping to become pregnant soon and is unaware of her husband’s thoughts on the similarity of female genitalia.
The one driving turns the radio down and says, Then what is it, then?
The one in the passenger seat says, You have to open your eyes, man. The answer’s obvious.
The one in the passenger seat is not married, never has been, and probably never will be. He does not have any siblings or close friends. He considers himself average in every respect and most agree he is correct in this, as he is neither handsome nor unhandsome, bright nor dull, witty nor humorless. He talks to his mother on the phone every day, roughly the same time every day. He tries to eat vegetables every day. There are other things he does every day, but they aren’t worth noting.
The two of them are on their way to a meeting across town.
The one driving will buy his wife flowers once a month.
Later they retreated to separate corners. The following week nothing in the world happened for either. Rather, they both slept, showered, maintained personal hygiene. They worked, ordered lunch, and commuted home, checked mail, exercised, watched television, roamed and repeated daily, but not with each other or in consultation. Both thought of the other, alone at night, and periodically through the day, wondering this or that, wondering if the other was likewise alone at night, up beneath the blankets, not sleeping, maybe getting out of bed to turn on an air conditioner or a sound machine, something that would make noise, take up space, provide a distraction, still wondering what the other might be doing and with whom, both thinking ultimately it was none of their business, that there was no actual bond between them, spoken or unspoken, no implied covenant, but still there was something, though perhaps it wasn’t mutual, perhaps it was entirely one-sided, but even still, they wondered if the other was up wondering the same things, still curious, still uncertain but excited, still hopeful. Both considered calling the other but then reconsidered. One or the other maybe even picking up the telephone, maybe even dialing the first few numbers, but in the end doing nothing, putting the phone back down, thinking it inappropriate, too forward. Both consulted friends on the next best move throughout the week and were confused by what they heard, how they were counseled. Then, finally, one did call the other, deciding enough was enough, and after a few false starts and the requisite back-and-forth, they came to terms.
The one driving says, What do you know about it?
The one in the passenger seat looks at the one driving. He says nothing.
The one driving likes to hold his wife’s hand when they go out walking. They make it a point to go for a walk twice a week after dinner. She always chooses the path and he follows. This is how they both want it. Once she let him choose the path and they ended up on the wrong side of nowhere.
