Driving in My Car

I turned up the radio. N had called needing a ride from the border crossing. Not sure why she called me, other than knowing that I wouldn't say no. The crossing was oddly empty of cars on the US side of things. I pulled into the loading zone and N got in the car. Heading home, the border plaza was more crowded. This was one of those dreams where the signs and arrows on the road didn't seem to mean anything but to me. Cars wandered across the concrete expanse in buffalo like herds, with about as much organization. I found myself headed up the wrong way into oncoming traffic at one point and barely managed to get over and turned around without an accident. After much pursed lip complaint from my unhappy passenger, I finally got the routes sorted out and drove N home.

Her new home was quite the luxury affair, multiple large TV's, comfy couches, rich thick carpets, heavy elegant drapes. I was surprised she didn't just call a cab, but looking around couldn't see anything that really looked like N in the rooms. We sat on the couch for a bit, chit chatting. eventually she leaned into me and we cuddled. I was pleased that she no longer stank of weed ash, I was thinking perhaps she'd completely re-invented herself this time. We sat enjoying one another's warmth until the large screen TV popped to life, showing a bunch of squealing bikini clad volleyball players romping around in slow motion. From the cinematography and hair styles (and high legged bikini bottoms) I could tell the film was shot in the late seventies. I was able to ignore the TV after the initial onslaught (a 'bird in the hand' and all of that.) N, however, was disturbed by it, though strangely hesitant about doing anything about it. That is, until the bikini tops started flying off. She got up and headed deeper into the house with a purpose. I hesitated a split second before I followed her, enjoying the fact that the producers hadn't hired a bunch of silicone injected models for their shoot, and realized that was a later development. I hurried after N, expecting her to be looking for a remote, I wanted to ask "why not just power it down manually" without worrying about...

We entered a small den, where there was a young man playing on a computer. N asked, politely, if he could turn off the TV in the front room. His answer was simply "no" and a sarcastic smile. N was surprisingly meek about that answer.

N led me outside the house, confessing that she had not exactly been truthful with me about where she lived.

I made the mistake of saying "that's not really a surprise."

She said "you don't have to be an asshole about it."

I realized that was exactly what my comment was, and she was right; I didn't have to be a jerk. At the same time, she had been lying to me, and I really hadn't been surprised.

I walked her around the side of the big house to a much smaller glass-fronted building. She made me stop at the door so I said good night. I walked around to the floor to ceiling windows and looked in at her apartment, pretty much a single room with a bathroom next to the kitchen and a set of screens blocking the area of the walk-in closet. Brightly colored covers hid several pieces of very blocky furniture. I didn't see any sign of cats, and that was sad to me. "Nice fishbowl," I mouthed.

N laughed, but then stepped to her coffee table and picked up a remote, pressed a button; window shades rolled down. She waved goodbye, her lips pressed together in a wrinkled thin line of disapproval.

I really need to work on the sarcasm filter.