Neither Of Us Needs Words; I Guess I Forgot

It was one of those cool summer nights that aren't hard to come by in this town. He didn't have to tell her, she already knew where he was headed. She drove the long way, slowly turning five miles into fifty. They were always doing that. What was the rush, anyhow? The river was quiet at night. Quiet and beautiful. The kind of beautiful you don't see in the movies. Everything about this place was unconventional, at best. She could spot his dingy green car from a mile away, it had character...and that sunroof. The motor was off and the driver's seat was reclined so intensely that it had already made its way into the backseat. She knew his eyes weren't closed; he was thinking. She opened the door and without a word, sat down next to him, reclining her seat to match his. There was something strangely comfortable about the way they communicated. Words were rarely exchanged and she never found it odd. Silence was golden to them; he understood what she meant, and she understood just the same. How that came to be, they will never know. And in retrospect, I don't think they ever cared. It had always been this way. The book was on her lap: beaten, dirty, and so dog-eared that there was not a page without meaning. They had no idea what they were going to do. Think, I suppose. But, in the silence, his hand reached over the book and found hers. They would make it through. They always did.

This is an apology.