The cornfields of Ohio gave way imperceptibly to the cornfields of Indiana. Then Illinois. Beyond the highway, the world blurred into an amalgamation of Midwestern blues, yellows, and greens, marked by the occasional peeling red barn. The sun shone bright through a cloudless sky. I pinched myself to keep my eyes from wandering down the lanes and backroads that diverged from the interstate. I longed to veer off and explore the fading, rusted towns of middle America.
We met in a dirty franchised diner. Perhaps I was trying to relive some of those mornings together—thin coffee and greasy hash browns. Maybe she was too. I couldn’t remember whose idea it had been. It was quiet for a Sunday morning. Church hadn’t let out yet. A waitress with fading bleached hair led us to a sun-soaked booth at the front of the restaurant. We both ordered pancakes; blueberry for me, banana chocolate chip for her.
“So,” she said. “How have you been? Was the drive alright?”
“The drive was fine, but I’ve got a lot more ahead. A lot more of this fine country to see.” I paused. “I’ve been fine though, how about you? Happy to be done with school? Congratulations, by the way.”
She rolled her eyes at me, stirring sugar into her coffee.
“Yes,” she sighed. “And no. But you know how it is. College is over, and real life has supposedly started. But nothing has really started. For the first time in my life, it feels like there’s no path forward, like I’m stuck in some liminal space. Some fucked-up existential waiting room.”
She stopped and smiled a wry smile as the waitress brought us our pancakes.
“Do you know what I mean?” she added when the waitress was gone.
I thought about it, whether I had ever been stuck in this waiting room. Probably not. While I’d never had any clear image of my future, decisions always felt quite logical. There was a natural progression to my life. Things just made sense. Like a cyclist at the top of a long, winding hill, I could simply coast, letting a natural momentum carry me through the curves and contours of a life.
I shrugged. “I get what you’re saying, though I don’t think I can relate to you. At least not yet.”
She nodded slowly, sipping her coffee. Her eyes surveyed the room around us, jumping from person to person. Then she set her cup down gently.
“You know, it’s funny, but I don’t think you’ve changed at all. The way you talk, the way you think, it’s all the same. At least that’s one constant in the world that I can identify.”
I don’t know if it was an attempt to guilt me, but I felt guilty.
“I try not to change,” I said. “Not that change is bad or anything. I just think that consistency deserves more credit than people usually give it.” The slightest inkling of conviction grew in my voice. “You know, everyone has this romantic idea that they’re running away from consistency and that if consistency catches them, it’s all over. So they keep moving and changing because otherwise they’ll wake up one day and realize that life has passed them by. But that’s not consistency. That’s complacency. There’s a big, big difference.” I clamped my jaw shut. Across the room, a baby was crying. Not screaming and wailing, but clearly upset. Outside the streaked windows, the sun had reached its apex. We sat silently, long enough for me to finish my pancakes. Particles of dust floated over the table. I mulled empty thoughts over the dregs of my coffee.
“So, then what are you doing now?”
I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.
“It’s hard to explain,” I sighed. “But I just need to follow my intuition. When the next step is clear, I’ll take it.”
She wouldn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at her. Across the room, the baby had stopped crying. The waitress brought us separate bills without asking.
—–
She asked me to come over and I did. Was that the right step?
Everything in her house was the same—stacks of unshelved books and the thick, nauseating scent of lavender incense. Even the same bedsheets.
The next morning, I woke before her. I slipped out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. Shirtless and barefoot, I drank two glasses of water to purge the sleep from my body, then stepped out onto the porch.
The sun had just risen, and the sky was a thin, airy blue. The grass shimmered heavy with dew. The faint hum of a distant highway was barely audible. Monday morning, husbands and wives on their way to work. A cool breeze brought the late spring air to my lungs, and I breathed deeply. There was a fullness to the air, a saturated freshness only noticeable at a certain time of day during a certain time of year. A rare, beautiful sense. As I took in the air, I thought about the day before—what I had said and what I had done. But I couldn’t come to any conclusions. There seemed to be nothing I could take away, no better understanding of myself or the world.
The storm door crashed, and she joined me outside. We stood on the porch, shoulder to shoulder, not saying anything. I had the overwhelming feeling that she couldn’t see me at all. If I close my eyes, I thought, I will vanish. I will disappear seamlessly from this world without a trace. No one can stop me, and no one will realize. I will transform from someone to no one. I will travel from somewhere to nowhere.
A mourning dove cooed softly, high up in an oak tree.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, and I didn’t.
The dove quieted, leaving the early summer air thick and still.
Tom Nakasako is a writer from Columbus, Ohio. His work has previously been published in Eclectica Magazine. He studied English Literature and Environment at McGill University. He may be found between Columbus, Montreal, and Hiroshima. instagram.com/tomnakasako.
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