Dreamrail

by Michael Ripley

With all four windows rolled down, wind roared into her car as if Sarah were sitting in a wind tunnel facing headlong into the turbines; long blonde hair erupted behind her, covering the headrest, tugging at her head. Her foot held fast to the floor; the Beamer, her husband Tom’s idea, soared along the interstate at just over a hundred and twenty miles per hour.

Other cars in the left lane pulled over as she approached them from behind. Sarah never acknowledged the sideways glances or the pointed fingers as she flew by. She focused on the road ahead, no care for where it led, no concern for her final destination. Somehow she knew this would hurt him; maybe if for no other reason than the car. One way or another he would lose.

Soon, the highway would come to an end in Laredo. She had nearly reached the southern termination of the road; high speed expressway turning abruptly into a city street, then merging to find the bridge over the river, out of the city, out of the country. Four miles to go, and still the car, no the Beamer, moved along as fast as its wheels would carry her; two minutes left before open road would turn to stoplights, traffic, and pedestrians.

“Just go to Mexico,” she could hear Tom say. Always his motto when things got tough. Never understanding why anybody would end it. “When things get to that point, why not just leave. There’s nothing to hold you back anymore. Just go to Mexico.”

It seemed like a great plan, and toward Mexico she flew, needing to decide in the next minute what it would be, still holding fast with her foot, cars pulling off the road, letting her go, lining her way.

Signs, rumble strips, flashing lights, traffic ahead, Laredo loomed, small town, not even a city after all. Time to stop, let up, Mexico sounded right, but her toe, just the large toe of her right foot decided to force the issue; she remembered somewhere deep down that Tom and his bright ideas were the root of her problem. She held fast.

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The End