Love and the Highway by Brandon Wilkerson The passenger door slams. I ease my foot down on the accelerator and build toward speed. She's here with me, finally with me, and I could tell her anything. She looks uneasy, though. What's making her uneasy, when I'm clearly trying to make this a good time for both of us? I might -- I really have entertained this notion -- I might marry this girl, and all she does is sit silently in the bucket seat, absolutely dispassionate in the knowledge that I am taking her wherever she wants to go. Although, if I'm mistaking dispassion for ponderous thought ... could it be she is there in my passenger seat, slowly unraveling the fabric of some greater dilemma? Yes, I can see it, the slight tilt of her mouth, the continual wringing of her hands -- she's absorbed in thought. Paradoxes and conundrums flash upon her inner eye as she meditates over ancient Zen koans; the sound of one hand clapping, the stone that parts the river. She's sorting through apocrypha, determining truth for herself. She's carrying out debate on the societal value of moral relativism over absolutism ... and not just that! Agnosticism versus faith, predestination versus chance, all major economic ideologies versus themselves! A spectre is haunting her -- the spectre of Communism! This is getting out of hand. I've got to reach out to her, show her that I am a kindred intellectual spirit in this world where duncery is celebrated, doltishness applauded. We will spend our lives touching minds, fathoming the most labyrinthine philosophies over a pale glass of wine, I in a velour jacket, she in a toga. We'll be neo-bohemians, outraged at world ignorance as we work to create sweeping equality. No portion of humanity will again be trodden upon -- we'll uplift the spirit of native Americans, wave the banner for Semitism, be champions of negritude! She and I, the pre-eminent thinkers of the age! I feel so proud, exalted -- I stretch out my hand to her, palm up. "Tell me, what more is there in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in our father's philosophies?" How literary I am, how Shakespearean. "You're real weird, aren't you?" Weird? Weird. Ah, she's picked up on my allusion, and is using the archaic meaning of weird -- fascinating, extraordinary. And her use of 'real' over the more correct 'really' shows enlightened dissatisfaction with conventional grammar, or perhaps a Hemingwayesque mistrust of adverbs. Either way, how noble! "Has anyone ever told you that you have all the trappings of a great intellectual?" She's laughing. Was I too complimentary? Not enough? "Do you mean, like, good in school and stuff? 'Cause I never really was." Hmm. I've made a very incorrect appraisal of her mind. It's always distressing to discover how little we truly know about the one we love. And yet, in some ways it is a relief. My only expectations of her need be as a lover. Yes, how wretched to objectify her, especially after my talk of equality, but I know that I will adore, cherish her as an object. She'll be my wife; we'll make love nightly, no, hourly, and afterward I'll kiss her fingertips and whisper of her beauty. My rose, how supple your legs. My tulip, how fine your neck. My chamomile, how -- my eye creeps over to her form in the passenger seat -- how prodigious your body! My love, my sweet obsession, you are morbidly obese. And I thought the groan when she joined me in the car was made by my lonely, longing heart. Clearly, it was the vehicle's suspension! Her metabolism must be that of a hibernating bruin! Of course, her breasts are the size of my head, and I am forced to count that in her favor. Still, what woe this marriage will be! How shall I keep this hulk fed? What if she bears me a child, and in my joy of fatherhood I am negligent of shoveling the whole lion's share into her cavernous mouth? Would she devour our offspring in compensation? Or even if I am dutiful in her feeding, could the birthing so excite her appetite that she must eat the wee babe as an entremets? And her face! Were it even swine-like I could confess to some fondness, as pigs are somehow sweet in their rooting, but she is nearly oxine! Her nostrils, set alone, could deceive all the world's zoologists. The only question would be whether they belonged to the stout ox or the hirsute and clumsy yak. Oh God, all is lost. No, this self-pity must stop. I refuse to grieve for the future -- I am made of sterner stuff than that. I will resign myself to this marriage (oh, what an ungodly union! as if David had wed Goliath rather than smote him), just as stern men have done before and as they shall after. "Fear not, my moonwort, my pitcher plant, I will stand by you. I will --" "Could you stop up here at the trucker's diner?" "Uh, yes, of course." Why does she suddenly wish to stop? Having heard my vow, does she now want physical proof of my devotion? The horror, the horror! She'll take hold of my collar, drag me on top of her considerable girth, and demand my affections. But I, to retain my dignity, will imagine I am in a sunny courtyard, holding the dainty hand of a parasol-shaded debutante, as all the while my body is engaged in the most sordid act of sexual congress the world has never seen. It's somewhat romantic, is it not? But, wait, she's merely getting out. "Thanks for the ride, dude." Could that be all? Is our severance to be so quiet, with no useless arguments or childish invective? It must be true, since she is even now waddling toward the diner without so much as a backward glance. I have become a "dude." The circle has closed, then. Just as when she entered my life, I'm building toward speed on this endless highway. Our time together seems like little more than a brief moment of life, now. Love, rare bird that it is, flew from my gentle hands without explanation. But I held it, as surely as I hold my steering wheel now. I turn on the radio as a tear ekes its way out of the corner of my eye. Neil Young's voice fills the car, crooning over his search for a heart of gold. Sniff. "Sing it, Neil."

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