the habit of being

Everything was sun-colored as we walked into the desert to die. Sick dusty shells, we were delusional with anguish. Our breath stank. Our knotted hair flew in our faces. Our packs were heavy. The wind was heavier.

On the horizon, there were brown mountains, sienna lumps, and it was impossible to tell how far away they were. Very far, a million miles. One road stetched forward. We would never get there, but we imagined ourselves melting into the waterless ground that stretched between, dried out and tongueless, sitting silently on rocks, watching the life blow out of us and away. We could watch each other die, but we could not get too close. Closeness was forever over. I could not even walk near him. His mind was full of misery, disgust and nothingness.

He’d removed my hand from his chest the night before, as we feigned sleep in the bunk of a big truck’s cabin, on the bumpy ride into California. He’d silently, quite deliberately, put the offending object off of his person. In the morning, he told me he did not love me anymore. He said this resolutely, frustratedly, as someone hard and cruel, but yet somehow dead, given-up. He said other things too, mercilessly. It was the worst it had ever been. I was frantic; I was numb. I hadn’t had much sleep, and it was all too real.

I was ready to go die with him, and as I struggled against the wind that threatened to blow me under the wheels of each passing car, I mumbled under so many breaths “I hate you.” His back was before me, curled over and bracing against the wind with the heavy blue cross of our failure on his back, as on mine. It was the first hate - it gave me strength in my exhaustion. With every step, I looked at his hiking pack ahead of me; “I hate you.”

We were going noplace now. We were going “that way.” We were going “away.” Away from the greener hills and science fiction herds of windmills. Away from the truck stop where we sat, frozen, glued to our plastic booth, listening to “Tainted Love” over the intercom. Away from the highway, and all the other places we’d come from. Away from our false adventure.

There was sand. There was orange, and tan, and dust. There was flatness. It was hot and freezing at the same time. It was March. It was almost Palm Springs. It was the end of the world. The second end, and there would be more. It didn’t matter. He didn’t love me anymore and, in all my love, I hated him for the first time. I was so hysterical, I was almost serene. I wore myself slap out and just kept on walking. I wanted to collapse. To collapse would be dignified and horrible. It was not possible to walk in a straight line, because of the wind. It was not possible to stand up straight. It was not possible to cry, but it was impossible not to. I was crying and not crying. I was breathing heavily.

There was a store. It was small, of the earth. Inside, there was no wind. We got bananas. We got water. The shopkeeper spoke to me. I don’t remember what he said. I don’t remember what happened. I remember fruit. I remember sitting outside the store on a wooden log, a parking space bumper. I remember being silent or shouting, or both. I remember a car pulling up and making everything worse. I remember remembering every detail about the people in that car. I remember symbolism I’ve now forgotten.

The wind in the desert makes you raw, and we were already raw. We were so raw we were not even really there anymore. I don’t know what happened to make us turn back. I don’t remember deciding. I don’t remember relief. I remember that we were not so far from where we’d started. We could see the truckstop still, and the windmills, and the highway. We were going back to cooler colors.

Then, vaguely, I was thinking about pills. I was inventorying what we had with us, counting them in my head, with my breath, like sheep. I was breathing, forgetting the desert, trying to distance myself, trying to see myself separately. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I was still walking. I was desparate. I did not know anything by the time we came upon the highway.

The truckstop was on the other side. It was grey. The highway was busy. There was no crosswalk. We ran for it. Our packs were heavy. Our packs were blue. I did not mean to fall down. When I tripped, I tripped in slow motion. After I realized I was going to fall, I just fell. It took a long time to fall. I twisted my ankle. I landed on my side. My pack was on top of me. My pack was strapped on. I couldn’t get up. After I realized I couldn’t get up, I just didn’t get up. Somewhere close, an eighteen wheeler blared its horn. I lay my cheek on the asphalt.

Somewhere, he turned around. Somewhere, he said “shit.” I was so glad to stop walking. I was so glad to lie down. He ran back to me and dragged me over to the shoulder, out of the way of the truck. It hurt.

It was a long time before I moved. I lay curled up on the side of the road. It was the longest minute. It was the calmest. He asked me if I was okay.

Only a day or so later, I’d take the pills, but this was the closest to death I ever came.