Mistakenly, Seldomly, Finally

The first two seconds of the final minute of January 31st are simultaneously the silliest and most harrowing moments of Peter's life.

As soon as the car's tires lose what little grip they had on the ice, Peter jerks the wheel to the left and sends the vehicle skidding and screeching into the guard rail.

It's silly because as he watches the pine trees in front of him flip upside down, he's annoyed that the cake in the passenger seat is about to get ruined. Jenny hadn't believed him when he told her he worked all day to make it from scratch. And she definitely won't now.

His arms float in front of him as gravity inverts. He wonders if this is what it's like when astronauts first break through the atmosphere and no longer feel that constant tug downward. As his limbs continue to move of their own accord, something wet and sickly sweet smelling smears across his face. Still staring at his out-reached hands, Peter recognizes the goop stuck to his nose the light pink of the icing he had tirelessly created.

Perhaps he used too much sugar. Jenny hates too much sugar. She had hated the caramel corn they shared at the carnival. They sat next to each other as close as anyone can, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, and when Jenny tried a piece from the bag Peter offered her, she scrunched her nose and said, "Too sweet."

The skyline continues to flip and right itself over and over. Peter can't seem to stop focusing on the way his arms stay stuck outstretched, hands hitting each other over and over.

Jenny had gripped his leg as hard as anything where they were sat inside that big top tent, watching the trapeze swingers miraculously spin about. The smaller one released their grip on their swing, launching themselves and flying through the air for what felt like forever. Their hand strained and stretched for the hand of their friend swinging to meet them. Fingertips glanced off each other, sending the smaller one flipping and tumbling to the ground. Gasps echoed through the crowd, which then erupted into cheers as the trapeze swinger landed perfectly in the arms of the other performers down below just as they had planned. Jenny let go of Peter's leg then to clap and yell as well.

Peter realizes he is yelling now, too - his own screeching matching that of the car as the metal dents and bends every which way. The car continues its tumble down the bank, and his hands still to reach for nothing. He thanks God there's no one in the passenger sit with him.

Ranting and raving about the show they had seen, Jenny grabbed Peter's hand as he drove her home. She smiled at him and said the day was wonderful. He swore he could hold her hand forever and listen as she talked about anything and everything.

Peter's head bounces off the window next to him, and he finds it harder to see now. He hopes Jenny won't cry. He thinks of her looking to someone else, another man. He hates it. And yet he doesn't want her to waste time thinking of what could have been.

Will she think of him everyday? Every now and then? Or only once in a while until she doesn't at all?

If he passes through her mind like only the briefest of breezes while she holds another's hand and it brings a smile to her face, that will be fine, Peter thinks. That will be fine.

Through his blurred and double vision, Peter watches the clock on his dash flick from 11:59 to 12:00 before the light shuts off. Happy birthday, Jenny.

Everything has stopped flipping, and Peter rests on his side. His arms lay in front of him, still reaching. When thinking of two hands missing each other, Peter hopes Jenny remembers those of the trapeze swingers, and not their own.

***

Note: as most of my writing has been these days, this was inspired by a song. It's actually a cover of a song by Iron and Wine that the subtle storm that is Gregory Alan Isakov did. Give it a listen.