I remember thinking that night how bright the moon was.  It wasn’t just a full moon – it was huge.  It seemed like daytime at night.  As we drove along, it outshone even the streetlights.  I saw the details of everything in a weird, grayish light.  It was like another reality, quiet and off-tint, like we were driving into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

We were going to a movie, I think.  Some new summer blockbuster, really just a way to pass the time.  Things had become strained between us lately, and although we spent just as much time together, we spent it in ways that required us to be silent.  Lots of movies.  Public places where no intimacy was allowed.  It was unconscious, but deliberate.  I didn’t want to hear anything come out of her mouth.  I’m sure she felt the same way.  I felt like a big brother now.  A babysitter.

Down Canada Drive, I took the long way because there was a song on the radio I loved as a teenager and really wanted to hear.  It was Blue Oyster Cult, “Don’t Fear the Reaper.”  Now that I look back, that was pretty damned funny.  Well, almost.

“Stop at the ATM,” she said, rather loudly, as if I couldn’t hear.  “I need movie money.”  Annoying.  That’s what was wrong with us.  Little things like that had begun to annoy the hell out of me.  Beyond what was normal.

I stopped without saying a word.  There wasn’t really any point in telling her how much she was beginning to piss me off.  Even her silence was a thorn in my brain.  I hated her for speaking, for not speaking.  Did she hate me too?  Probably.  No point in starting something.  I remember thinking that maybe tonight would be the last time I’d take her anywhere.  I guess I was deciding to end it.  Break things off clean.  I guess.

My eyes followed her to the small glass booth attached to the outside of the bank.  Her dress was made softer by the moon, which bathed her in that grey glow and made the harsh, pastel blue cling in shadowed layers to her thin frame.  Some might call her lanky and bony, but I like thin girls.  She was so easy to hold, and it always seemed that I had to handle her carefully, or she’d disintegrate.  Like china.  I felt an erection coming on.  I distinctly remember that.  Isn’t it funny how you can want someone, and be completely repulsed by them at the same time?  I wonder if she considered me undesirable at that point.  Probably, but it’s hard to tell.  We never touched anymore.

Somewhere in those few seconds, those moments when she was touching the bank door handle, I got the idea for the joke.  All of a sudden it seemed like a really funny thing to do.  I just had to.  It was so bright out here, with the moon and all; she’d only be a little frightened.  It would be just enough to see that fear in her eyes, just enough to make it worth my while.  The word hit me.  Abandonment.  Like a stray dog.

I already had the engine running, so she wouldn’t be startled by the startup noise.  Besides, those little glass ATM rooms were pretty soundproof, and she had her back turned anyway, concentrating on her twenty dollars.  I looked at the moon.  I drove away.
I didn’t go far.  I’m not that cruel.  I just drove around to the back of the bank.  Just far enough so that when she turned around it would seem as if she’d been left behind, when all the time I was only a few feet away.  I turned up the last part of “Reaper.” I sang loudly along with the radio.  Damn, that’s a good song.  I love that part.

It took a few minutes.  It’s a long song.  I figured she’d be pretty freaked, so I drove around front again.  I knew she’d be pissed as hell, just enough fuel to start the argument. Then I could end it, and she’d be satisfied that she was getting the better end of the deal.  Yeah, I know, it was malicious, but the best jokes usually are.

I drove around the building to an empty parking lot.  An empty ATM booth.  I stopped for a minute and stared, watching the light from that moon like a spotlight on an empty stage.  Then I drove off.

She didn’t go home, just disappeared into thin air.  Her parents buried an empty box a couple of months ago.  No one blamed me; I gave the police a good bullshit story about muggers.  I had the scratches and bruises on my face to prove I had tried to chase one of them, had come back to find her gone. 

The thing is, though, that I made up that stuff just now about listening to the end of that song.  I don’t remember what happened after I made the corner, under that moon.

©2009 Lynette Mejia