Shorts or sorts

Highway Don't Care (JUL2016)

My entry for the July Fiction Contests 2016, themed: Drive.

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"That's 10 dollars and 39 cents." The girl handling the cashier said with a bored look while chewing a gum. I muttered my thanks and walked out of the convenience store with my two bottles of coke after paying her. Under normal circumstances, I would've bought alcohol. But drinking while driving while having a reasonable reason to start a man-hunt wasn't really a good option.

I walked soundly with my heart still pounding hard after I decided to run down ten flights of stairs to the parking lot back in the apartment instead of taking the perfectly functioning elevator. It was a rash decision. But emotional situations called for emotional choices.

Leaning my sweaty forehead against the roof of my beat up car, I willed myself not to go to the part as to why I didn't use my brain at all and let my anger, frustration, and maybe a twinge of sadness lead my actions. I yanked the car door open with much more force than necessary and pushed myself down onto the peeling leather of the driver's seat.

There I was, just another person fresh out of her tenth break-up. Facing it like a big girl with no tears shed because that's just how I dealt with my feelings. I pent it up.

But this time, instead of feeling proud of myself for not succumbing into weakness, I felt like ripping my eyeballs out. Because this time was different. This time, I'd actually believed we could work out. That he might be what the rest of humanity describe as 'the one'. He was my one. At least I thought he was.

Just this time, I wanted to let go.

With a tired sigh, I turned the ignition on. Bertha wheezed and coughed for a moment before slumping back into unconsciousness. I groaned and turned the key again. And again.

"Come on, Bertha. You can do this." I whispered soothingly to my car.

I gave up after a few more minutes of trying and slammed my head on the honk, causing Bertha to squawk out a horrible note that lasted for five long seconds before I lifted my head off the wheel.

I ran a frustrated hand through my short blond hair and rested my elbow on the door. "Now you hate me too?" I muttered tiredly. I had now reached the point of stress where I resolved to talking to inanimate objects.

Wonderful.

Bertha managed to splutter to life after a few more coaxing words and turns. I didn't waste any more time and drove straight out of the resting area onto the highway again. Driving aimlessly and distractedly. Because no matter how hard I tried to shrug off that nagging part of my brain that kept insisting on playing back that conversation that had me driving with no particular direction at 6 o'clock in the evening, I couldn't.

I wanted to figure out what went wrong.

I had opened the door to our one-bedroom apartment after what was already a tiring day to a full raging party. My first thought was that I had barged in on the wrong room, but the number plate outside clearly said 1098. Was everyone else lost?

I pushed my way through the throng of sweaty bodies dancing to the pounding bass to the kitchen. I found David there with his arms raised high, holding two giant glasses full to the brim with yellow liquid. The crowd around him were chanting, "Chug it! Chug it!" as he grinned drunkenly around at his supporters.