There was a fight

There was a fight. He wanted quiet, I wanted to make noise (this a reoccurring theme), and now we sit in silence punctuated by forks scraping metal plates, the undiscussed tears resting heavily between us.

Wendy wrote of a meal in Los Angeles during which her head wandered to a fantasy of Ecuador. Here I sit in Ecuador eating the fruits of my labor, traditional llampinganchos (though not perfect, quite delicious), and not even the fried crispy potato outside can keep my mind from wandering away here, where the lights create mirrors of windows and the cold causes me to huddle in my sweater, he in his jacket, heads bent, food to mouth.

In my mind, I am driving in my red truck, following Jen north through Wyoming, the yellow tarp around the mattress she has hauled from South Carolina whipping in the wind of the grass lands. Flat, open. Jen is driving my truck over Lolo pass after a weekend of paddling the Lochsa River and I sit in the passenger seat, windows down, we both belt out Happy Woman Blues, Lucinda Williams. Becca Drives in the dark through high snow banks- the heater pumping, mountains looming, our skis bouncing in the back. We stop at a small bar in Gardner for grilled cheese, french fries, beer, and juke box. Candace and I drive down the one in California listening to Manu Chau. The sun blazes on an ocean far below as we pull over at the end of a long dirt road and watch the sun make its long journey down, dinner replaced by Gillian Welch and PBR. Cameron and I drive through the redwoods curving sharply into the mountains (and I am caught off guard that he is not absent from this reverie of motion, freedom, westward united states, connection) this time not to Henflings, but to a silly italian restaurant where the waiters dance and sing and the owner wears leather pants that say “fuck” all over them. We both sing Neko Case and smoke hand rolled cigarettes, me in my favorite tight skirt and flame boots, this night part of the reconciliation that brought us here, married.

When he finishes, he says politely “That was very good, thank-you.” He watches me eat the last of my salad with my fingers, then sop up the leftover dressing with the extra lettuce (he picked from the garden) sitting in a bowl. When I finish, he asks “Would you like to talk now or later?” I answer, “I think later.” He clears the plates, and I marvel at how calm and patient he is, such a contrast to my temper which has been boiling so close to the surface lately.

I go to my (our) room and put on the head phones, wrap myself in Neko Case, always the anthem of my restless, persistent teenage heart. I sing at the top of my lungs to the entire album The Tigers Have Spoken, and then the first half of Furnace Room Lullaby. I travel my (many of them our) memories and I knit, stopping only to use the needles as drum sticks. I let the sound fill me up and spill out, releasing with it the need to leave, to drive, to run. I sing until I am ready to be quiet, ready to open the door. and (with more struggle than I would have liked) let him back in.