when you commented on my post j bet u were like “i didnt think about that.” And i sat there super angry like “you dont yhink about anything.” So please dont ahte on my poems. I never hate on yours. Justin beiber rules. Baby baby baby oh like, baby baby baby no.

this is a draft ,

Part 1 ✽ ——————

“Dont fall behind.” Dan states, his voice rough and tired as usual.

They have been walking all day and, understandably, Mateo has had enough. He trails behind sluggishly letting out groans of annoyance every few seconds to get his opinion across in any means necessary.

“Can you stop?” He turns back around to face Mateo and waits for him to catch up before walking again.

“Where are we?” He groans again and kicks his foot at the ground pulling up the grass.

“I dont know.” He sighs, fed up with the teen behind him, silently wishing he left him behind.

“Where are we going?”

“You know where we’re going.”

“In the long run, yes. But we obviously arent getting there in one trip, so where are we going?”

“I dont know. I didnt think about that.”

“You dont think about anything.” Mateo whines and starts running to get ahead of Dan. “I miss London.” He shouts back at him.

“No you dont.”

“Yeah? Well I had a bed back in London!” He snaps not paying attention to what he’s saying, just wanting to find a good argument.

“No you didnt.”

He stops running and stays in one place staring at the grass. He was tired and fed up with walking, he didn’t need some strange man telling him he was better off with him than at home. Dan places a hand on his back as he passes him, carefully pushing him along beside him unwilling to stop walking.

“I had a family back in London.” He mutters.

“Yeah, and you left them. You ran away from them and I had to save you.”

——————

This is a random draft I forgot existed and forgot what I was doing with so here it is as it is ig 💪 epic ikr

Uhh, this is my characters from my novel I mentioned ages ago, check my writing titled ‘streptocarpus’ it’s on the 42 week ago mark but I don’t write much so it’s not that far down on my profile. That will pretty much explain any background info on the situation here.

I’m posting this cause otherwise I never will and I’m trying to get back into writing novels and short stories like I used to instead of poems

This one is genuinely rubbish I forgot I wrote this

“I didn’t think about that” Peter said looking at me, his mask covering his face. I could tell he was anxious, making sure he could prove himself to Mr. Stark. “You don’t think about anything!” I yelled back. “You’re a superhero, your supposed to make fast decisions!” While turning away.

“MJ come back! I swear I’m trying to save everyone, I didn’t mean for it to go this way!” Peter yelled as he grabbed me with his web, yanking me back. “Peter, you almost killed my entire family. You don’t even bat an eye when it comes to this stuff. You need to be more careful.” I reply.

(Peters POV)

Words cannot describe how much I almost fucked up an entire family. I could have ruined this girls life. “No… MJ I’m sorry please!” I say trying to fix this. “No Peter! You almost killed me and my family. I need time to think about things. I need time to process this. Stick to being ‘a friendly neighborhood spider man’ and stay away from me and my family until I can sort you out.” MJ screams in anger.

“MJ please!!” I call.

“C’mon man! Take the knight and kill her Queen already!”

“mmm… Hol’ on…. Lemme think…”

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Will!

“Alright. Alright.” Will raised his hands, “I speak no more.”

He fell back into the bed.

Surrounded by an audience of stacked cardboard boxes, Avery waited for Alex’s next move. What started out as Unpacking Boxes after moving was now evolved into a Chess match.

Alex grinned. It wasn’t always he got to one-up his best friend like that.

“Cut the monkey-business and move your piece already” Avery groaned.

“Let me try!” Will hopped off the bed and joined them on the carpet below.

“But—“

“Hmm… let’s see…”

He picked up a rook and slid it across the checkered board, taking out her knight.

“NO!”

“YAS!……what?” Will’s enthusiasm died as soon as he saw Alex scowling at him.

Avery bit her lip in a poor attempt to hide her smile.

“Go on, Avery!” Alex let out an exasperated sigh.

“Ay.”

The carpet beneath Will suddenly felt hot. His little move with the knight paved the way not only for her bishop to take his Queen but…

“Check.” Avery declared with a sly smile.

Will felt he’d been hit with a chess board in the face. “I didn’t think about that…”

“You don’t think about anything!” Alex irked, “Now, what?”

“AHAHAHAHA!!!” Avery burst out laughing.

“We need a redo!”

“NUH-UH!”

“AVES, PLEASE!”

“NoT gOnNa HaPpEn!—“

“Mija!”

A voice from downstairs immediately cut them off.

“Si, Mama!” Avery sprang up.

“Help me here with these boxes, please!”

“Coming!” She called out. “Alright guys, you start setting those books. I’ll be back in a minute”

She said all of it in one breath and ran downstairs leaving Will, Alex and a huge empty bookshelf.

“Let’s… get started.”

[A couple content warnings this time around. Lots of swearing, as per usual, and this is intended for mature-ish audiences. There is one(1) mention of boners and nothing is done about it. Have fun.]

“How’d you get past security with a brick of lead in your bag?” 

Tyson sounds tired, deadbeat and quiet. Sergei laughs softly despite the newly dour mood, ducking his head before saying, “No lead. Hand knife over. Steal back once through,” and Tys lets out a quiet snort.

When Sergei turns to face Tyson, he’s standing a little stiffly, ballerina-like posture indicative of its contrast- a sore body. Sergei softens at the sight of him. Automatically, he reaches out to take one of the two duffle bags slung over Tyson’s shoulders, but the latter takes a step back, and even with that tiny movement he wobbles a bit.

“Gimme,” Sergei says, and Tyson relents with a small sigh, letting the smaller of his bags slide off his arm for Sergei to take. He still has his computer bag and a carry-on trailing behind him, so Sergei doesn’t ask before grabbing at the handle of Tyson’s suitcase.

For half a second, their fingers brush. The contact burns hot. A little too warm.

“You sleep on flight?” Sergei asks, stepping closer, and christ, Tyson is positively _radiating_ body heat. 

“Not a damn wink,” Tyson murmurs, his posture deflating minutely. He looks pale, but his cheeks are ruddy with warmth.

He looks sick.

Sergei disassociates for a good thirty seconds to mentally flip off the universe before zoning back in to the sound of Tyson muttering about being cold, redirecting his attention to the main source of his misery. 

Tyson’s eyes have slipped shut, and looks for all the world like he’s fallen asleep standing up. When Sergei gently presses the back of his hand against Tyson’s forehead- shit, yeah, he’s burning up- his eyelids flutter but don’t open. He jerks back and tries to swat Sergei’s hand away, but instead, Sergei just secures his hand around Tyson’s jaw, trying to pry his mouth open to check the color of his tongue. He’s reasonably uncooperative.

“Th’ fuck‘re you doin’?” Tyson grumbles, cracking an eye open to glare at Sergei. Apparently, dehydrated Tyson forgets his Canadian manners. He tries to slap Sergei’s hand away again, but it’s more of a weak backhand pat than anything else.

“Open your mouth,” Sergei says, and Tyson barely has time to reply with a faint “What?” before Sergei is forcing his mouth open with a thumb between his teeth.

_Pretty like this,_ says a quiet voice in his head, which- uh, what else is he supposed to think when he’s got his fingers in Tyson’s mouth? However, the thought is quickly replaced with _Fuck, they’re sharp_ when Tyson bites his hand in an attempt to make him let go. His assumption is correct, though; Tyson’s mouth is dry, his tongue has a yellow sheen to it, and his breath is too warm to be healthy.

Both of Tyson’s big stupid doe eyes are open now, narrowed in annoyance since Sergei hasn’t released him yet. His face has flushed darker, and this close, Sergei can just barely make out the marred patch of skin where Tyson had gotten surgery due to a fractured mandible eleven years ago.

Sergei snatches his hand away from Tyson’s face when he tries to nip at him again, wiping the spit off against his pants, much to the obvious disdain of the other man, who makes a _bleh_ sound and shakes his head.

“What’s your fuckin’ diagnosis, doc,” Tyson grouches, smoothing a palm over his jaw where Sergei had dug his fingers in. Sergei feels sorry, just a little, because he’d gripped the other man hard enough that it might bruise. Tyson is already feeling bad enough.

“Dehydration,” he says, just as Tyson mumbles, “My head hurts,” further confirming his suspicions. Sergei swears that one day this man and his terrible self-care habits are going to be the death of him. “You drink anything in Utah? At all?” 

Tyson doesn’t respond, but the flash of guilt across his face says it all.

“Jesus, Tyson. Go sit.” Sergei motions to the empty gate, and Tyson manages to shuffle over and drop his bag without toppling onto the floor. He does collapse into the end seat, though, and when he tucks his legs up- essentially fitting his entire self onto the chair without touching the floor- before wrapping his arms around himself, something in Sergei’s chest does a weird flip-flop and he has to tear his gaze away so he doesn’t have a fucking heart attack and die in the middle of the airport.

Not a lot of stores in Halifax airports are open after midnight, so he calls over his shoulder to Tyson, “Stay. Will be right back.” Tyson makes a noise that sounds like it might be an affirmative, squints at Sergei from where most of his face is hidden by the pillow of his arms, and gives him a small thumbs-up.

Sergei has no idea how many days Tyson has gone without water; they’d only been in Utah for three, but it’s probably not been long enough for him to completely reject his superstitions, so he wanders around for a good while before he finds an operating store that sells the brand Tyson likes. The cashier gives him a weird look- and rightfully so, because why is there a man buying six bottles of Eska at  in the goddamn morning- but rings him up without a word. 

When Sergei returns, Tyson is out like a fucking light.

Which means that within the thirty-minute timeframe that Sergei was gone, Tyson had passed out from lack of water. 

This is exactly what he _didn’t_ want to come back to.

So Sergei does the only rational thing he can immediately think of. Which is, to anyone else, not very rational at all.

With a heavy sigh, he manages to balance Tyson’s two duffel bags on his right shoulder and his own bag on his left, letting the suitcase stand on its own for a minute in order to do this properly.

He’s glad he got those two hours of sleep on the plane- he probably wouldn’t have the energy for this if he hadn’t. Thank god for power naps.

Sergei worms his left arm beneath Tyson’s legs, making sure to pivot the man’s weight into his chest so he doesn’t fall over when Sergei picks him up. Tyson’s a fucking _dead weight, _holy shit. Sergei has to prop a leg up on the nearest chair to reposition him so he doesn’t tear a muscle or something.

It’s kind of an over-the-shoulder, but lower, as if he were carrying a child. Tyson’s face is resting in the crook of Sergei’s neck, with most of his weight resting on Sergei’s chest rather than his actual arm. Technically, it would be so much easier to just toss Tyson over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but Sergei knows well enough to preserve his dignity. 

The walk from the terminal to the Uber that Sergei called is fucking agony, and in more ways than one. On one hand, Tyson is like two hundred pounds and pretty damn difficult to heft in one arm. On the other hand?

This is the closest Sergei has ever been to Tyson, and he is a _furnace _in his arms_._ Sergei is starting to sweat just from the sheer heat of him, and it’s at _most_ four degrees outside right now, so he’s got a decent idea of how ill Tyson really is.

When he gets to the pickup location, the driver is already outside the car with the trunk open. She gives the two of them a surprised look, but doesn’t say anything, just wordlessly takes their bags from Sergei and puts them in the back. It’s a huge relief, shedding about a hundred pounds of weight from his shoulders. He has to set Tyson down first, though, before he can give the woman his own bag.

Sergei gently slides Tyson off of his arm and into the backseat, shaking out his sore muscles, before chancing a look at Tyson’s slackened face- which he immediately regrets, because Tyson is always good-looking, but he’s even more gorgeous right now, for whatever reason. The blue light of early morning is just.. so pretty on him. Objectively. Yeah.

Forcing himself to remember his responsibilities, Sergei checks Tyson’s pulse.

It’s a little too slow for his liking. Sergei frowns, swearing under his breath.

The lady- whose name Sergei learns is Sam- seems to notice, because about two minutes into the drive, she asks, “Is he okay?” and motions between them towards the backseat where Tyson sits with his temple pressed against the window.

“Yes,” Sergei says, keeping his eyes trained on the road in front of him, even though he’s not even the one driving. “Not drink enough water.”

“I see,” Sam replies, and that’s the end of it.



When they arrive at the hotel, Sam offers to help with the bags, to which Sergei tries to decline, but she insists. She ends up carrying both of Tyson’s duffels to the lobby, though, and even a seventy-five percent tip doesn’t feel like enough to compensate.

The woman at the front desk doesn't say anything, but Sergei is starting to get tired of the weird looks people keep giving him. There’s the routine back-and-forth that comes with checking into a hotel, Sergei rattling off all the necessary details of his fake identity, and he readjusts his hold on Tyson as the woman hands Sergei the hotel key- room 871. 

Thank god there's nobody waiting at the elevator, because he’s not dealing with _that_ this early in the morning.



Depositing Tyson onto the single bed in the room, Sergei quickly googles, “how to rehydrate unconscious person,” and finds himself a little put off by the results. No way he’s doing this shit. 

The least invasive thing he can think of right now is just putting Tyson in the bath with his boxers still on, so he does. While Tyson marinates, Sergei hops up onto the vanity and fucks around on his phone for a little while, then goes to get familiar with the hotel room. It’s pretty basic as far as cheap Hyatt hotels go: king bed tucked against the far wall, armchair in the opposite corner, minifridge built into a desk, and a TV that’s probably from the early 2000s.

Fifteen minutes later, once Sergei deems him unlikely to die, he hauls Tyson up by the armpits out of the lukewarm water to attempt to dry him off. It turns out to be a bit difficult, seeing as Tyson is pretty much still a limp body, but he manages it, before putting him into the bed with a bottle of water and some Ibuprofen on the nightstand. He’s struck with a sudden sense of Deja Vu, but pushes it down in favor of not having any real coherent thoughts for the next hour or so.

As he steps into the shower, though, two things are going through his head right now: One, the fact that he's trying and failing to keep his mind off of Tyson, and two, how it’s leading to the more or less unorthodox thoughts he's having. Tyson is _literally _in the next room over. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He ends up straight up showering with a hard-on. Just. Entirely ignoring it. By sheer force of will(and also the effect of turning the water temperature down to the point where he feels like his junk is going to be dysfunctional forever), he manages to get his boner down before he has to face Tyson again.

Tyson wakes up while Sergei’s still in the bathroom, trying to scrub off the remnants of today’s bad decisions. There's a quiet _thump_ and a more prominent “Fuck” that follows it, and after a moment, Sergei can faintly hear Tyson shuffling around. 

He’s pretty sure what he just heard was Tyson falling out of bed, but then something slams into the bathroom door- and Sergei doesn’t _jump_, he’s not a scaredy-cat, but it’s a near fucking thing.

Two seconds later, there’s a quiet, unbelievably polite knock on the door, and Tyson mumbles, “Sergei? You in there?”

He doesn’t reply. What’s he gonna say? No, I’m not in here, you’re experiencing auditory hallucinations, go back to bed? 

“If you’re not done in the next five minutes I'm gonna piss on the floor,” Tyson deadpans, and Sergei turns off the water with a sigh.

-

Sergei grumbles the whole way through the evening, Tyson notices.

“Privyet, Tys,” He murmurs when Tyson finally emerges from the bathroom, not looking up from his phone. Starting right off with the targeted attacks, too, because Sergei is _only _wearing sweatpants _and_ he’s still damp.

It’s somewhat countered by the ridiculous way he’s lying on the bed, though, with his stupidly long legs propped up against the headboard.

“Eto chertovski otstoy, mne by khotelos' okazat'sya v svoyey komnate i podrochit',” Tyson hears while the other man rifles through his bags after Tyson had forced him out of bed so he could get comfy.

He pulls out Tyson’s gun and the individual ammo he likes and sets it out on the counter. Tyson feels his heart swell a little, even though whatever Sergei had said sounded anything but pleasant.

“Ty khot' pochistilsya? Ty chertovski vonyayesh', ty urod,” and Tyson can’t tell if this one is directed at him or not, seeing as Sergei is fussing over his temperature and how much water he’s drinking and doing everything except looking at him. Or speaking English.

“I don’t-” He starts, and winces at the way his voice cracks before getting himself under control. “I don’t speak Russian, Sergei.”

Sergei looks over at him from where he is crouched by the minifridge, sliding a few water bottles into the door rack. His expression is as neutral as ever. Tyson’s probably hallucinating the way his eyes look hooded and bored. Dark_._

“Good. Better you don't hear what I say,” He says, cracking a little smile, and turns his back to Tyson.

“What, are you shit-talking me to my face?” Tyson replies, straining a little as he sits up on his forearms. He’s pretty damn sore for a guy that hasn't done anything in five days.

Sergei snorts quietly. “Maybe I not talking to _you,_” he retorts. 

“Oh, I didn’t think about that,” Tyson says, sarcastically. 

Sergei snarks right back. “You do not think about anything,” he replies, and Tyson begs to differ.

“I heard ‘ty’ a few times in there, I know you were talking to me.”

“Ah! He is learning,” Sergei laughs, standing up to return to where he was cleaning his guns. The tri-blade he’d kept as a souvenir from all those weeks ago lies on the counter beside them.

Tyson stares at it, feeling a small pang in his shoulder just at the sight. He crosses his arm over his chest to stretch it out, suddenly feeling tense.

“Do you ever plan on using that?” He asks. His voice comes out quieter than he intends. He hates that he sounds almost _scared._

“Yes,” Sergei says, oblivious. “I say is useless, but anything can be weapon. This one just bad at it.” As if to prove a point, he slides the twisted blade over his palm, barely leaving an impression on the skin.

“Okay. You don’t need it right now,” Tyson whispers, dropping his arm. Both his hands fall in his lap. “Put it away?”

Sergei looks at him, eyebrows raised, looking a bit incredulous. Something about Tyson must be off, though, because Sergei takes a tiny sharp breath and immediately moves to find the sheath for the knife.

“Sorry, Tys,” he mumbles, and Tyson wishes he never said anything at all.

[Translations for the latter half:

"Privyet, Tys." - Hi, Tys.

"Eto chertovski otstoy, mne by khotelos' okazat'sya v svoyey komnate i podrochit'." - This fucking sucks, I wish I was in my room jacking off.

"Ty khot' pochistilsya? Ty chertovski vonyayesh', ty urod." - Have you even cleaned yourself? You fucking stink, you freak.]

I made a mistake. I know I did. Everyone knows.

I try to explain, to make excuses

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry

I didn’t think

You never think about anything

I never think about anything

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry

You tell me it’s ok that we will get passed it together

But it’s not ok and it won’t be Never again.

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

(Not the prompt)

So, I’ve been wanting to write a mini-series about mythical creatures.

These aren’t mermaids or anything, but instead cat like creatures. (Just by looking at my writings you can tell I like cats)

For example, a type of creature I’ve come up with is a bright, pastel colored cat with butterfly like wings and antennas. (No I don’t know what to call it, if you have any name suggestions I’ll be very thankful!)

If you have any ideas on something similar to that, let me know!

Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow on Laura and Michael as they said quietly at the kitchen table. Their hands were wrapped around mugs, but their eyes were locked in a silent battle.

"I didn't think about that,’’ said Michael glumly, a look of shame washing over his features.

"You don't think about anything!’’ Laura snapped back, her anger piercing through him like a bullet. ‘’Do you realize how that sounds?"

"I know, babe. I just forgot, is all. It was a mistake."

She glared at him. "A mistake? This isn't about forgetting to take out the trash, Michael. This is serious."

The tension in the air was palpable, a taut string ready to snap. The clink of the spoon against the mug as Michael stirred his coffee was a jarring note in the otherwise quiet room.

Finally, Michael broke the silence— speaking slowly, as if trying to choose his words carefully. "I just... I got caught up with work, honey. I’ve been stressed out lately. You know how it is."

"That's always your excuse,’’ Laura replied, rolling her eyes with frustration. ‘’But what about us? What about our plans? I know you’ve been busy, and so have I. But do you see me ignoring my responsibilities? No, Michael. What if I just forgot to pay the mortgage? Or put the kids on the school bus?’’ Michael looked away, his gaze settling on the small crack in the wall, as if it held the answers he needed.

‘’Hello?? Michael, look at me! We're supposed to be a team, remember?"

Michael exhale, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I do remember, Laura. and I'm sorry. But, I didn’t forget to call the contractor. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.’’

Laura's sigh was heavy and filled with disappointment. ‘’ you havent gotten around to it? Or you just didn't think it was important?"

"It's not that. I just... I didn't realize how much it mattered to you."

She shook her head in disbelief. "Of course it matters! How could it not? This is our home, Michael. Our future." The words hung between them, a reminder of shared dreams and the reality that was slowly pulling them apart.

"I'll fix this,’’ Michael assured her. ‘’I promise.’’

Laura hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Promises are easy. I need you to show me you mean it." They sat in silence, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing down on them. The coffee grew cold, forgotten, as they pondered the fragile threads of their relationship.

He stretched both arms across the table to take Laura‘s hands in his. "I'll call the contractor right now. And then will sit and go over everything, okay?"

She nodded, the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. ‘’ Thank you, honey.’’

With a heavy sigh of relief, Michael stood up to fish his phone out of the pocket of his blue jeans. Crimson flushed his cheeks as he forced an awkward laugh.

‘’ What, now? ‘’ Laura asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

‘’ You’re not gonna believe this… ‘’ he said, scratching his head and staring down at the floor. ‘’ But, I think I must have forgotten my phone at work.’’

Two people stand in a void, an empty plain of bright light, a sensory deprivation chamber of swirling shapes and sounds just out the realm of comprehension. Both are identical yet different. One is younger, more lively and larger in size. The other is older, his face aged by time, his body more lean and muscular. __

The Younger speaks, his voice higher and without the heavier southern twang of the older.

“Your looking well.”

“I did this for you, after all.”

“Seems to me like you did it for everyone besides yourself, what happened to being comfortable in our skin?”

“Comfort and being able to get up out of bed in the morning not hating how I looked were two different things.”

The younger one would sigh, becoming agitated, his shoulders heaving as the base of his neck became red. That was his problem, always angry at the world over things it didn’t cause. __

“You get a little yoked and suddenly your some philosopher? Hop off your high horse, your no better then me.”

“I am better. I’m the one who adapted, I’m the one who made it out.”

“And for what? To get away from some name calling and some boo boos?”

“Boo boos?! We got jumped in a parking lot, damnit! Its not about being self-conscious, its about survival.”

“Your such a pansy. «Survival»? You sound like an edgy dork.”

“See, this is your problem. You never stopped and read the writing on the wall. What happened were the consequences of your actions.”

“S-shut up!” He yells, teeth knashed and his face turned red.

The sound echos through the expanse of nothingness, refracting off invisible walls.

“You know I’m right. All you ever did was whined, complained, and moped like a fat frog on a log.”

The silence was thick enough for the pin drop to cut through it, it only being interrupted by the arrival steps of the third. He was slightly older then both, a young man at this point. He had retained and refined the muscularity gained by the second, yet he seemed more cheery and bright eyed. He spoke with a deep voice, a little raspy but full of confidence.

“Howdy, boys. How’re we’all doin’?”

“Not good, he won’t be reasonable.”

“He’s trying to be all high and mighty, like always.”

“Well, the way I see it: your both in the wrong. We’ve grown, but in the end we’re all the same. We all started like this, it’s our job to not be like this when we finish.”

_The Older One sits there, his face a little dumbfounded. He hadn’t expected it to get turned around back on him. _

“I didn’t think about that.”

“You don’t think about anything.” The Oldest says jokingly, pulling him in and giving him a noogie.

“Now come on, we gotta get back to work.”

_The Expanse dissipates, the silence being replaced by the buzzing of the morning alarm being quickly shut off with a groan. _ __ __ “God, that was a weird dream.” He says, yawning and wiping his eyes as he lazily types away into the notes on his phone labeled “Dream Journal”, rolling out of bed to start his day, a little bit wiser and a little bit older.

I open my eyes.

Outside the car, rain falls in heavy sheets. I can tell I wasn’t out long, because we seem to be driving through the same stretch of baron highway. Same passing power line poles, same drenched fields.

“It’s no use,” I say and scoot myself upright in the passenger seat. Rubbing against the leather makes that sound that Jim always giggles at. It reminds him of farts.

“Hun, we’ve still got six hours to go, you should sleep,” Jim says, reaching for the radio. “Is the music too loud?”

“Just watch the road,” I say.

I dig into his jean pocket and wrestle out his crappy phone with the shattered screen.

“Or you can stick your hands in my pants. That’s nice too,” he says.

“Didn’t you have an appointment to get your phone fixed?” I ask.

“I thought you were gonna do it.”

“Jim, you’re driving me crazy.”

“Nope, I’m driving you to Emeryville,” Jim says, and chuckles at himself.

I scroll through his photos: swimming in that secluded lake up in Tahoe, a blurry image of a falcon -I delete it. They’re good memories, but the cracked screen somehow highlights the negative in my brain. It reminds me that I was sick in bed eating nothing but salty

crackers for two days because of that freezing lake. The bad bird pic reminds me of when he forgot to schedule a wedding photographer.

“This trip’s gonna be worth it. Dave said they only request face to face interviews with the top three applicants,” he says.

“Your brother’s hook up didn’t work out so well last time,” I say.

“This time it is going to work out so well. Super well. Unbelievably well. Sir Wellington the third well.”

“You’re a dork,” I say.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

“I can’t sleep when your driving.”

“Why not?”

“How late were up last night? 2:30?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” He says, yawning. “I got this. Just relax.”

I lean back against the window and look at Jim’s phone again.

I’m looking at a picture of us in our Sacramento apartment, just before we moved to Fairfield, when his phone shuts off. He always forgets to charge it. The steady bob of the car begins to lull me and I close my eyes.

I’m startled awake by a loud, repeating sound coming from outside the car. I can feel it under my feet.

“Flat tire,” Jim says.

The rain sounds louder once Jim pulls to the side of the highway and hits the emergency lights. I squint against the window to take in our surroundings. It’s just more farmland, more power line poles, and more road. I fold my arms close to my chest; with the car off, I’m already getting chilly.

“You know what,” he says.

“You didn’t put the spare in the trunk,” I say.

“I meant to do it before we left.”

“Well, good. You meant to. I guess I can rest easy knowing you meant to take care of everything.”

“Hey now,” He says and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“You should have checked the tires for air pressure,”I say.

“I didn’t think about that.”

“You don’t think about anything.”

“Jeez, I can’t stop a rock from blowing a tire,” Jim says, throwing his hands up.

“But you could have been prepared with the spare. I swear I can’t count on you for anything.”

“Oh, all of a sudden you can’t count on me for anything because the tire blew?”

I sit up right and feel a volcano of anger erupt from my gut. There’s no containing it now.

“You don’t think things through. You don’t follow through with anything worth while. You won’t even make your own stupid appointment for your stupid phone. How many jobs have you had since we got married? Four? And now we’re driving all night on a flimsy chance of a job that’ll probably mean we have to move again, but I’m not moving for a job you’ll abandon in a year’s time.”

Jim shuts his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Why does one little thing have to spiral into the end of the world with you? We’re talking about a flat tire.”

“No, this is about you half-assing everything in life and leaving me to take care of it all,” I say. A car speeds by and it rocks us like were in the middle of the ocean.

“That’s totally not fair. I’m trying.”

“That’s the problem. You try. But you’re a series of letdowns.”

The words hang in the air. I can’t grab them back. Jim looks at me with a silence that kills. We stare away out our door windows and listen to the rain for a while. A slow rumble of thunder spreads across the sky, playing like the soundtrack to my bad mood.

“Where’s my phone?” He finally asks.

“It died. And I left mine at home.”

Jim doesn’t respond. He could have let me have it about leaving my phone at home. I left myself wide open for a shot. But he doesn’t take it. He just stares out the window, breathing heavy. It’s so hard to have an argument with him.

“I see town lights up ahead. You wait with the car and I’ll go get a tire or help or something.”

“Alright,” I say.

Jim hustles to the trunk of the car and digs around. He then jogs to my window, already drenched.

“I, uh, forgot to pack an umbrella.”

It’s not funny, but we both laugh.

“Ok. Well,” Jim says, looking toward the city lights, “I better get going.”

“Ok.” I say.

Our smiles fade, like our faces just remembered we were fighting. I watch Jim trudge down the road in the rain without an umbrella.

Without much sense.

Without me.

“Jim, wait,” I call out, “I’m coming with you.”