Chapter Text
My want was more gnash, than kiss. More eat, than embrace. [...]
I wanted her happiness.
I also wanted to unzip my body and pull her into it, or crawl into hers.
- abandon me, melissa febos
THE LADY IS A TRAMP
She was wearing pretty-pink rollerblades and tights when they first met, a juxtaposition from the start, and the UPS driver would’ve liked to tell you that he didn’t stare at her shiny-blonde hair for a full five seconds before greeting her – but that would be a lie.
He cradles a small package in under one arm and held a clipboard in the other. “erm, delivery for Miss… Barbara Handler?”
He thinks the smile on her face can’t get any wider, eyes can’t shine any brighter - until they do. “That’s me! Wow, Gloria said the delivery would be fast, but I didn’t expect it to be this fast!” she squeals, words trickling out like she can’t help it. “Oh– and please, call me Barbie!”
He cocks his head slightly, a faint ghost of a smile creeping around his mouth. “like... the doll?”
She purses her lips together, in an almost coy manner, as if the innocent comment amused her. “Yes,” she replies, “exactly like the doll.”
He gives himself a mental shrug, and figures that he’s had weirder encounters in Los Angeles – a blonde calling herself Barbie would only add to his list. He extends the package out for the blonde woman to take. She grabs it with awe, her fingers rub the cardboard and eyes study the shipping labels with deep concentration.
The young driver wonders if she’s high.
“So, I… uh, just need your signature.” He mumbles, pointing at the clipboard in his hand.
Her eyes light up, “Oh, o-okay!” she rollerblades back into the kitchen, placing the package on a counter, before looking back at him. “I’ll go get a pen!”
The driver digs around in his pocket. “No, it’s okay! I have one–”
But it is no use, she’s disappeared into the house before he can even finish the sentence. When she returns, she has a large smile on her face and a pink sparkly pen in hand. The driver doesn’t say a word, rather simply points to the signature box.
He can hear her whisper to herself in glee, murmuring words of self-encouragement, as she concentrates in signing the delivery document. When she’s done, she hands him back the clipboard – almost expectantly. He finds a pink-inked signature: Barbie, with a small heart at the end.
He can’t help but crack a smile at it. “Pretty nice,” he compliments.
She giggles, and it sounds like the trained tilt of a singing bird. “You think so?” she asks gleefully, “I’ve been practicing ever since I got here!”
Once again, he doesn’t understand what she means – where was “here”? But like any gentleman, he does not press her for more. “Well, it’s much better than I could do.”
There is soft laughter, and then a silence. He figures to take it as an opportunity to return to his truck – return to work. So, he says a soft ‘goodbye’, and she thanks him for working so hard so she could recieve her package so quickly – he quietly wonders if she knew how Amazon Prime worked.
“Bye!” she waves enthusiastically, standing at the front door, as his delivery truck backs out of the driveway. He turns a shade of red - unequivocally sure that the entire street had heard her. But Barbie’s enthusiasm is infectious, and he feels bad to leave her hanging, so he quickly waves back.
Yep, he thinks, She was definitely high.
DON'T WORRY 'BOUT ME
It wasn’t too long before he saw her again; glowing blonde hair brushed perfectly beneath a pink silk bow – a stark contrast to his own tattered brown uniform. The UPS driver was sweating out of his skin, shoulders tensed, as they carried 4 large packages, all at-once, to the front door of her residence.
He’s nearly made it to the porch, when he finds the front door swing open – and in it’s frame stood the blonde. She points at her cellphone with a giddy excitement, oblivious to the driver’s blight. “The phone said that you arrived! So cool!” she exclaims, twirling around in excitement – like a ballerina in a music box. But her face quickly grows concern when she notices the heaving effort of the driver. “O-oh! Here, let me help!”
She takes the top two packages from the pile that he was juggling, and – with an admirable amount of ease, given she was wearing heels – places them inside the home, next to a shoe rack. He’s not too far behind, walking slowly with heaving breaths. Dropping the packages ensuite, he finally leans against the doorframe – catching his breath. The joints in his knees hurt, and he could feel his uniform stick to his back in a sweaty mess.
She on the other hand is seemingly unfazed - standing in place smiling, her posture straight as it can be. “Are you okay?” she finally asks, grimacing slightly.
He nods, trying to stand as straight as she was. But he feels himself go light-headed the moment he does – clutching the doorknob for support. “I’m fine. It’s just this heatwave is killing me, and they didn’t fix the AC unit in my truck, an-” He shuts up rather quickly when he finds her looking at him, growing more and more concerned. “B-But I’m fine!”
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks in return, “Gloria tells me hydration is a great way to keep cool during the heat! I do forget that sometimes, you see, in Barbieland I didn’t really need to drink anything – but that’s all different now that I’m human.”
The driver can only blink in response to the blonde’s strange spiel – unsure if he was experiencing some heat-induced hallucination or not.
The blonde must’ve taken his silence for an answer, because she quickly grabs his arm and pulls him inside the home.
He doesn’t fight it – can’t fight it. The home was cold and its air crisp – everything that his dingy, humid UPS truck was not. She sits him down on a living room couch, and saunters away to the kitchen.
He was breaking all sorts of UPS delivery protocol right now. He was not allowed to enter customer homes. And yet, here he was – sitting in the living room of a total stranger.
The blonde returned with two glasses, filled with a translucent liquid. She sets one down for him, and one for herself, taking a seat adjacent to him. “Here!” she says, “I made it myself this morning.”
He takes the glass and murmurs a soft ‘thank you’. He brings the cup to his lips and cringes. It was lemonade – very sour lemonade. But he reminds himself of his manners, and quickly hides it with a smile. “Thank you – it’s nice.”
Her own smile fades slightly as she picks up her glass, eyebrows furrow in concentration. Hesitantly bringing the glass to her lips, she tilts it just a bit too much – causing a dribble of the drink to escape her lips and run down her neck.
“O-oh!” she quickly runs a hand across her neck, blue eyes faltering, and that ever-present smile disintegrating into a disappointed look. It is only the tiniest of setbacks, the smallest of nuisances, and yet the young blonde looks as though she is about to burst into tears. It is not very polite to stare at a distraught lady, and so the driver quickly looks away – finding the pattern of the living-room carpet to be more appealing.
“I’ve practiced drinking out of cups so many times, and I still can’t do it properly.” She murmurs, almost to herself, slouching back into the couch in defeat, “last week I stained my favourite shirt with wine.”
Once again, the driver doesn’t understand what the blonde is saying. He can comprehend each individual word and its dictionary definition but putting them together fails to provide him with the necessary context or story.
He feels stumped and clueless, but most of all he feels bad. The young blonde was kind to invite him inside and offer him a cold drink, and he thinks it’s unfair that she feels any kind of discomfort – at least in this moment.
He fiddles with the rim of his glass, unsure of what to say next, until he finally sputters out: “You know… I… I didn’t know how to drive until a couple months ago.” His voice is croaky and awkward and unlike anything, he thinks, a person of comfort should provide. “I, erm, failed my drivers test at least a dozen times… maybe even more.”
He can feel every fibre of his being is screaming at him, every neuron in his brain pleading for him to shut up – he would only make it worse, he would only make it worse, he would only make it worse, he would only make it worse, he would make it worse, he would make it worse, he would onl—
He blinks, trying to shake off the pesky, unhelpful voice. “but I kept at it! And… uh, now I have my license.”
The motivational speech didn’t sound very motivational… or speech-y; but it was the best thing the delivery driver could offer in that moment.
The blonde woman points at the cup, “Everyone I know can use this thing.”
“Everyone I knew had their license.” He counters, taking another sip. He cringes – it was still sour. “Everyone is different, and… they do things at a different pace.”
She pouts slightly, like she was considering his words. “That’s what Gloria tells me.”
He smiles in return, “Well your friend is right.” He gets up from the couch, and digs around in his pocket, taking out a folded piece of paper. “I appreciate the hospitality. I’ll take your signature now.”
She sits in place for just a moment, before getting up back, and retreating down the hall. “I’ll go get my pen.”
“I-I have one here—”
“I know.” She calls out, from somewhere in the house. “I like using mine.”
The delivery driver doesn’t reply, instead he merely smiles to himself – he didn’t mind, he could sop up a few more moments in the cool house anyway.
THE TRAIN
Los Angeles mornings were fresh with dew, and the chill of after-dawn was just short of biting. He drove his way through the familiar street once again, stopping in front of a home that he now relished delivering to.
He sees her standing outside by the garden, dressed in pink overalls, she watered a bush of roses – stopping only as she saw his truck pull up.
“Hi!” she exclaims, dropping the plastic watering can, and rushing towards the side of his delivery truck. Her eyes are big and bright, and nothing like his own-sleep deprived ones. “You’re early today!”
The young driver nods, laughing. “I guess I am.” He walks towards the back of the truck and opens the roll-up door – picking up a small cardboard box – and then promptly closing it shut.
He looks back at the blonde woman, who eyes him contently – no doubt curious about the delivery structure. “Here you are, Barbie.” He draws out his words, emphasizing her name. To which she smiles; a response that he was hoping to get.
Barbie smiles, taking the small cardboard box. “Thank you—” she stops suddenly, pouting; seemingly at a loss of words. “I… I just realized; I don’t know your name.”
That takes him aback, he’s not too sure if any customer has ever asked him for his name. “It’s, uh, Thomas.”
Her eyes light up quickly. “Oh! Like the tank engine!” she beams, smiling even wider once he nods. “You know, Train Conductor Barbie is one of my very best friends – she has the prettiest pink-glitter ascot! But I didn’t really get to see her that often, you see, she lives at the edge of Barbieland – it makes it difficult to visit often.”
Train Conductor Barbie. Barbieland. Pink glitter ascot. Strange words – but ones that he has come to expect from the young woman. “Neat.” He murmurs, because what else can he say?
Barbie cocks her head ever-so slightly, “Why didn’t you become a train conductor?”
Another silly question. He shrugs absent-mindedly, flipping through his clipboard. “I dunno, it just never crossed my mind.”
She giggles to herself softly, and he can hear the faintest whisper: “A Thomas who never thought to conduct a train? Pfft.”
He smiles to himself, and wonders if blonde knew that her whispered thoughts could still be heard by those around her. Thomas doesn’t tell her that though – no, he’s too much of a gentleman. Or a coward. Or perhaps even both. He extends the delivery document, “I’ll take your signature.”
Barbie grins, digging into the deep pockets of her pink overalls, she pulls out a pen – her pen. Once again the document is signed in glittery-pink ink, and a little heart at the end of the twirl; just for good measure.
He departs with a smile, and she gives him an exaggerated wave as he backs out of the driveway.
Usually the young driver has forgotten about the young blonde by the time he’s driven a few blocks away, but this time it’s different. That all-too wide smile lingers in his memory for a moment longer, and her enthusiastic shrill echoing in his ears for a bit more. It’s only when he peers at himself through his truck’s wing-mirror, that finds himself smiling as well.
INTO EACH LIFE SOME RAIN MUST FALL (BUT TOO MUCH IS FALLING IN MINE)
He begins checking pre-inventory records every shift, looking at different schedules, and trading his colleagues for other ones – in hopes that he is able to deliver every package he can to that peculiar home, and it’s even more peculiar blonde resident.
It is on a rather dreary afternoon, that he finds herself exhibit something more than hollow glee and brightness. The Los Angeles sky churns itself into a nasty grey-green. It looked like an omen of irrepressible grief, but it was nothing more than a simple sign that it was raining in the city of angles. The small, wet drops evaporate as soon as they touch the steamy sidewalk – but it is rain all the same, and people (least of all Angelenos) weren’t about to waste a moment of it.
Thomas pulls up to the familiar residence once more – 5202 Lilac St.
Getting out of his truck, he half expects to be ambushed by a enthusiastic blonde – exclaiming greetings so loud, that it wakes up the sleepy residents of the upper-middle class neighbourhood. But he isn’t, and that perhaps should’ve been his first clue.
He walks up the porch stairs, two small packages cradled under his arm, and rings the doorbell. He waits, and waits, and waits, and wai—
The door opens gently, and much to the young driver’s surprise, he did not find a cheery blonde standing in it’s frame. It was in fact, actually, a rather sad blonde – her face churned with misery, the same way the sky churned its own storm. Cheeks stained with their very own kind of raindrops.
“Hi, Barbie.” The words come out with a certain amount of hesitance, as he takes in the sight before him. She was slumped on the doorframe, hair a mess, while her usual in-fashion (pink) clothing was replaced by stained large t-shirts and baggy pajamas. He can’t help but let a wince escape. “I got some packages for you.” He raises the boxes under his arm, motioning towards them.
But the sight of them seem to upset her further, causing her lip to turn downwards into a frowny mess. “I… I, um, can’t take them, Thomas.”
Well of course you can, is what he wants to say; because, in essence, that is how a delivery works. She pays for her things. He delivers her things. She takes the things. Easy-peasy, no fuss required.
“I… er, I don’t underst—what?”
The blonde blows a raspberry – a rather frustrated raspberry. “I can’t take ‘em. I don’t have the money.”
Thomas’ brows furrow deeper, eyes deeply confused. “But you already paid for the delivery?” he looks at his clipboard, scanning it quickly, and then turns it towards her. “See… look! You used your MasterCard.”
Her face scrunches together so tightly, that he’s amazed all the muscles are able to return to their original positions. “No, I used Gloria’s MasterCard.” She runs a trembling hand through her hair, “meaning, I used Gloria’s money… ugh, all this time, I’ve been using her money.”
There she was again – Gloria. He wonders what she meant to the blonde, “That’s kinda how a credit card works, Barb.” He chuckles softly to himself, “Did you think that the little plastic card was some magic money-making object?”
He thinks the joke is innocuous enough, but is quickly mistaken when he finds the blonde shoot steak knives with his eyes.
Oh?
Oh.
“Barb, how could you not—”
“I told you, I’m not from here!” she snaps back with desperation, and it shuts him up quickly. Her bottom lip droops, while big blue eyes threaten to match the dreary weather. “All this time I was buying all those things I liked… and it turns out I was just wasting Gloria’s money.”
The young driver stays quiet. He must have delivered at least a dozen items to the young blonde. If anything, he’s just surprised that her friend Gloria did not catch up with the credit card charges more earlier on.
His logical train of thought is only broken by the soft cries of the blonde in front of him, and the rather rude crash of thunder behind him. Barbara Handler was distraught, and so was the city of angels.
Thomas looks away. It was never nice to stare at a crying person, especially if that person had wasted their friend’s money on useless knickknacks and pink-coloured tapestry. But there is still a sense of pity for the blonde, and it was more powerful than antiquated expectations of chivalry or his own personal social cowardice.
“Hey…” he murmurs, hand reaching out with hesitance. “It’s okay… it’s okay.”
Barbie is a mess of snot, tears, and puffy eyebags. “No, it’s not,” she cries. “I’m pretty sure she hates me…”
He shifts in place, “No, I’m sure she doesn’t.” he assures her. Thomas doesn’t know who Gloria is – a sister? A friend? A lover? But given how lovingly the young blonde talked about her, he could tell that she meant a lot. “She might seem mad right now, but she still loves you deep down.”
“You think so?” she croaks, wiping her nose.
Thomas nods, “I know so. Sometimes our loved ones get mad, but it’s never permanent.”
Barbie cocks her head, like she was assessing his words. Her eyes fall onto the packages cradled in his hand, and tears well up once more in her eyes. “I can’t afford those…”
Thomas smiles softly, “Don’t worry, about it. I’ll take ‘em back with me to the warehouse and process a return for you.”
She smiles weakly, and raises her hand. For a second, she is seemingly unsure of what to do with it, until finally decides to squeeze his arm. It was gentle – it was kind. “Thank you, Thomas.”
He wants to say something back, perhaps dish out another one of his terrible motivational speeches. But the words just won’t seem to come out, and so he settles for a small smile and a wave as he departs back to his truck.
Helping Barbie Handler rectify credit card debt wasn’t on his bingo card today, but he’ll take it.
I COULD MAKE YOU CARE (IF ONLY YOU LET ME) PT.1
“Hey Thomas! Over here!”
The voice of the blonde is so familiar, that the young driver is able to pick it out even with the vast noise of the gears and pistons of his truck.
It had been a month since the credit card debacle, and since he last delivered a package to the blonde. Thomas won’t lie, it did dampen his enthusiasm for his shifts. He loved the young blonde’s strange tales and her tenacious optimism. And so, when he first hears he voice, he thinks that he might be imagining it.
It’s only when he looks in his mirror, and finds her walk towards his truck, that he is proven otherwise. Thomas pokes a head out his window, “Barbie…?”
She’s wearing a pink-coloured construction vest, with glittery garden gloves to match – because, of course she is. “Hi! It’s been a while!” The young driver pulls over the sidewalk and kills the engine. She greets him with a double-handed high-five (in which he misses both hands), and that typical too-wide of a smile. “What are you doing here?”
Thomas motions over a row of houses, “I’m delivering a package about a block away.” He cocks his head, glancing over at the dirtied gloves she wore. “What about you?”
She points behind her at a half-mowed lawn. Numerous kinds of garden equipment – mowers, trimmers, edgers – laid sprawled out on a stranger’s driveway. “I’m going door-to-door, trying to make some money!” Her eyes light up suddenly, and her demeanour quickly changes to something resembling teenage nonchalance. “I’m just hustlin’ you know… uh, I’m on that grind! Erm…trying to bag that – no! Trying to get that bag.” She sighs in exasperation, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “I guess I’m still trying to figure out the… slang.”
The young driver nods slowly, his own non-teenage brain trying hard to process the cluster of words thrown his way. “Well, I guess that makes the two of us.” He peers over at the lawn equipment, and then back at Barbie. “How is Gloria?”
The sound of her name causes the blonde to almost squeal, “You remember Gloria!?”
The blonde’s happiness is so infectious, that Thomas can’t but crack his own small smile. “it’s hard not to. You talk about her so often.”
“I do.” She giggles, but the giggles quickly fade into away, and a rather upsetting twinge glazes her eyes – as if she was in pain. “Gloria’s doing okay. She’s separating from her husband. It’s a tough time for Sasha… for all of us, really.”
If it was anyone else that was revealing the intimate information so casually, Thomas would’ve been a tinge uncomfortable. But this was Barbie Handler. The silly blonde who talked about Barbieland, and the difficulties of drinking out of cups, and who wondered why he wasn’t a train conductor because of his name. So, it’s easier for the young driver, to digest the information.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his own smile disappearing into a slight grimace. “I hope she’s doing alright.”
He then peers down at his watch – 15 minutes until noon. Which meant 15 minutes until his lunch break. He shoots a glance over at the young blonde.
“Barb, are you doing anything for the next hour?”
Barbie shakes her head, brows creasing slightly. “I’ll just be finishing up Mrs. Jone’s lawn – why?”
“Wanna go for lunch?”
Thomas clenches his fists into tight balls, awaiting her answer. But they loosen quickly, as he looks over at her face – her wide smile is enough to give him his answer.
I COULD MAKE YOU CARE (IF ONLY YOU LET ME) PT.2
“Oh my gosh, It’s bright orange!! Bright. Orange.”
The UPS driver has troubling stifling his laugh, turning a deep shade of red, as he observed the reaction of his blonde friend.
The nice lunch spot he had taken her to, was really just an old breakfast diner – though, it had a dozen or so lunch items as well. The restaurant possessed that typical 50s bubble-gum theme, a motif which the blonde instantly exclaimed as feeling like ‘home’. But Thomas had his reservations of how true that rang, especially considering how bewildered she looked at the creamsicle float that was served before her.
Orange soda, vanilla ice cream, and a colorful paper straw provided a concoction that was both delicious and able to make anyone a pre-diabetic. It was a classic – and a favourite of the young delivery driver’s.
Barbie grimaces, “Is this… even healthy?” she asks, stirring her straw in the soda float.
“No. It’s definitely, gonna take some years off your life.” He responds, putting his lips to his own drink, and sucking in a large gulp. “But it’s sooo good!”
“Humans are weird,” she mutters under her breath – the words are faint enough that he pretends not to hear them. With a deep breath, she takes a large sip - and instantly, she cringes. Fists tighten into small balls and her face scrunches up, as she has trouble swallowing the gulp of soda/ice-cream. “Oh gosh… that was so sweet. Too sweet!”
Thomas can’t help but wince at her reaction, “Maybe I should’ve started you off with a classical coke float.”
She pouts in return, sliding her drink over to him. “I think I’m done… with all kinds of floats.”
The driver shrugs – more for him, he supposes. A silence lulls between them, as he tries to finish the diabetes-inducing two creamsicle floats… and while she, just gazed around the restaurant.
It was lunch hour for most, and therefore rush hour for the diner. All walks of life were busy eating their lunches, or talking to their friends, or taking a quiet moment to themselves. It was a stark contrast to the sleepy streets of suburbia. Here, you could practically smell the human experience – and it smelled like sweat, stale cigarettes, and frying grease.
By the time she finally looks back at the young driver, he’s finished his own soda float, and had begun drinking hers. His stomach felt full and sick, but he had paid a monstrous $6 for each drink, and was not about to let his hard-earned delivery-driving wage go to waste.
Barbie crosses her elbows on the ceramic tabletop, leaning across the table. “Do you feel fulfilled?”
For a moment, the young driver doesn’t hear her over the ruckus of the diner. He thought that she had asked if he felt filled. To which he replies, rather sarcastically. “No. I think I could go for a few more soda floats.”
But the blonde’s eyes are persistent; if not, a bit annoyed. And so, she leans in closer – so much so, that he can see specks of dirt on her forehead, and strands of freshly-cut grass in her hair. “Fu-filled.” Barbie repeats, emphasizing each individual syllable. “Do you feel fulfilled?”
He cocks his head, taking a hesitant sip, unsure of where this line of questioning was going. “Fulfilled with what?”
“Everything, I guess.”
“Is anyone?” he says with a chuckle, but the laughter doesn’t sound rather convincing. He finds Barbie not exactly swayed by his last-ditch attempt at a joke, and so he clears his throat. “Erm, no. I wouldn’t say I’m exactly fulfilled.”
“Why?”
Thomas shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “I dunno. There are other things I would’ve liked to do. Who wants to be a UPS driver all their life?”
“But—but I thought you loved being a driver?” her voice loses it’s calm-collectedness, while big blue eyes seemingly shudder. “You told me that you worked so hard to get your license, remember?”
“Yeah, because I had to.” his voice is harsher than he wants it to be, more dismissive than he wants it to be. And Thomas is unsure if he’s upset at the blonde’s line of questioning or the remembrance of his own failures. Her words bother him in a rather peculiar way, forcing him to come to blows with bits of himself he was sure he had locked away.
Suddenly, the young driver was seventeen again. Losing his friends and losing himself – unsure of which was worse.
“I had to take this job.” He grits through his teeth, jaw clenching under the sheer pressure of all the things he hid in the void on top of it.
And yet still, Barbie doesn’t shirk away from his gaze. Her eyes are persistent, and somehow it makes him feel worse – or maybe it was the half-litre or so of ice cream/soda that he just chugged, making him feel sick. Either way, he could feel his innards twist together into tights knots, threatening to suck the air out of his lungs.
The blonde merely bites at her lips. “What would you do instead?”
Thomas knows the answer right away. He knows it like it was on the backside of his hand. He’s known the answer for as long as he’s been able to walk and throw a ball. But still, he pretends to think – pouting his lips, and furrowing his brow. “Baseball.” He replies, a with glaze over his eyes. “I’d be a baseball player.”
Barbie rests her chin on her knuckles, and he doesn’t like the look she gives him. Like she was dissecting him, trying to piece him together. “Then why didn’t you do that – why not do baseball?”
He slouches back into his seat, wondering if the blonde woman as intentionally being obtuse or trying to get a rise out of him. “I wasn’t good enough. No college wanted me on their program.” He replies, through clenched teeth. “It was an affirmation of everything he couldn’t be – of everything he’ll never be. Suddenly, it felt like the blonde woman was the cruel one. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asks; half-rhetorical, half-annoyed. “I didn’t get to play baseball. I didn’t get to go to college. I didn’t get to keep my friends. I’m a UPS driver who delivers Amazon packages to wealthy suburbanites, never daring to own one of those homes myself.”
He runs a hand across his face, and when let’s go, he feels like he’s aged a decade. “So you tell me now, do you think I’m fulfilled?”
She shakes her head in silence, big-blue eyes threatening spill over. She cocks her head, “I just thought… that if you really loved—”
“It doesn’t matter, Barb.” He cuts her off again. “It doesn’t matter. Sometimes you can love something so much, and still never have it love you back.”
A silence lulls, and the driver thinks that the young blonde seems paler than before. She fiddles with her thumb, twisting it in its socket, until she finally says: “Why isn’t it enough? Why can’t love just be enough?”
Another thinker of a question. Another question that the driver simply could not answer. He shrugs, taking a generous sip of the now-melted soda float. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
She doesn’t reply. And he doesn’t carry on the conversation. Instead, the duo sit in a silence that was both suffocatingly loud, and heartbreakingly isolating. Every now and then, he’d steal a glance her way and see her lips quietly move – talking to herself, airing her thoughts out, in the manner that she always did. Her eyes are cast downward, and she seemed disappointed; sad, almost.
Thomas thinks that she’s quite polite with her sadness – he wishes he was a bit more polite with his own.
When will I stop belonging to this hungry thing inside of me?
- the unbridged journal of sylvia plath, sylvia plath
