I didn’t actually intend on getting out for a drive that day; it just sort of happened. Lost in thoughts and stories and dreams of a different life, I’d like to say I tried to stop, but I won’t lie.
Yes, I saw him. He stood on the side of the road, arms in the air, telling me to slow down. I didn’t dare meet his gaze. Just a few miles up, again he stood, red-faced and angry. With a clenched fist he shouted, “Stop everything! Think about this! Don’t you go any farther!”
He told me turn around. He told me to take another route. He pointed out a safer road, but I knew that road would only lead me back to him. Each time he appeared, my white-knuckled fingers gripped the steering wheel harder, and I drove faster.
I pressed hard on the pedal, and with each added bit of pressure, fewer signs appeared on the long, sustaining road, and the less I saw his face.
“This road is no good for you! It’ll never bring you back to me,” I could hear him say. His head hung low. He knew defeat sat waiting at the next intersection.
My sharp gaze down the center white lines softened, and I saw clouds open to reveal a final exit sign. It was my last chance to turn around. So, I kept going.