Her neck was sore from looking out the window. She watched the trees, fields, sky and road signs go by. This drive was nothing new. She had seen the same trees, fields, sky and road signs in every season, at all times of day. She had this drive memorized—she knew of every bump and pothole on that long stretch of highway. Though it was a natural reflex for her to move with the momentum of the car as they made their way down the torn up piece of road, it still didn’t prevent the valuable drip of coffee from bouncing out of the paper cup onto her distressed pair of jeans. What a waste, she thought. It was that hot steaming cup of black Ethiopian Yirgacheffe that pulled her out of bed so early this morning. The thought of that smooth, rich, liquid meeting her lips, encountering her tongue and warming her entire body is what got her through the mundane morning routine.
It was an early morning adventure, and she had needed to get up extra early to leave enough time to primp and prep—go through the motions that beautified the natural beauty. It hadn’t taken the entire hour for her to get ready, but she had needed the few extra minutes to pack—one of her least favorite things to do. She could never predict what the weather would be or what her mood would entail so she stuffed a mélange of random clothing into her pink hard-shell suitcase. She’d found the task to be mentally draining and physically daunting and was out of breath from bouncing up and down on the suitcase in an effort to get it closed.
They drove down the road silently—conversation was not a necessity. She examined her husband’s face, a face that she had looked at countless times, a face she had memorized.
“What?” he asked after noticing the stare.
“Nothing,” she answered. “Should we get gas?”
“We can make it.”
She moved her stare from his face to the window. The world passed by and she couldn’t remember if she had packed her night cream. Making notice of nothing new, they quietly drove down the familiar road.
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