22 Days
Brendon&Ryan // 430 words // pg // for 10 Nov 09
Posted to we_are_cities
They call me Brendon, they call me tight shirt, long legs and a smile that stretches for days. Ryan calls me B, but we've known each other since before we could pronounce each others names. He's my eyesight in the dark and midnight all the time, sleepless limbs and 5:00 shadow three hours beforehand.
Ryan and I are sharing a shitty bed in a castaway motel four days from home. I said I'd drive him to the nearest Greyhound station, but made all the wrong turns and never actually found one. We're both okay with me not turning back, it's easier knowing we're only a foot apart in the car.
We're heading for the coast (eventually), and with no real destination it's easier not to be scared, not to turn around and go home. With four days behind us this only seems like a roadtrip, but in the breath between us we're both wondering, what the hell we think we're doing.
Every time we stop I pretend that I can smell the salty air of the ocean, that's where I've always wanted to be.
I will always be grateful that my brother put a stereo in my car for my birthday, it's coming in handy right about now. We're singing along to the lyrics of a song we loved back when we were just starting high school, I think we may pop the speakers though.
I lost my phone charger 15 miles back, but really, I'm not important enough for it to matter. Ryan didn't bring a phone, he only has a small duffle bag of nothing in particular, when we left I packed some things too, just in case. Just is case is now reality.
Every once is awhile we pull into an along the way gas station and pick up things of necessity; cigarettes, bruised fruit, Gatoraide. Nobody cares that we look to young to be on our own, nobody cares where we're from or who we are, they just want us to pay and leave them alone.
14 days after we've left we're eating in a truck stop diner we almost passed. The waitress looks about one hundred and five and tells us a story about when she was young, then she won't let us pay the bill because we remind her of friends she used to know. Ryan won't talk for two days after we were back on the road.
Then we get to the ocean, 22 days after leaving, I'm breathing brine and Ryan won't stop smiling. I don't know how long it's going to take us to get home.
Posted to we_are_cities
They call me Brendon, they call me tight shirt, long legs and a smile that stretches for days. Ryan calls me B, but we've known each other since before we could pronounce each others names. He's my eyesight in the dark and midnight all the time, sleepless limbs and 5:00 shadow three hours beforehand.
Ryan and I are sharing a shitty bed in a castaway motel four days from home. I said I'd drive him to the nearest Greyhound station, but made all the wrong turns and never actually found one. We're both okay with me not turning back, it's easier knowing we're only a foot apart in the car.
We're heading for the coast (eventually), and with no real destination it's easier not to be scared, not to turn around and go home. With four days behind us this only seems like a roadtrip, but in the breath between us we're both wondering, what the hell we think we're doing.
Every time we stop I pretend that I can smell the salty air of the ocean, that's where I've always wanted to be.
I will always be grateful that my brother put a stereo in my car for my birthday, it's coming in handy right about now. We're singing along to the lyrics of a song we loved back when we were just starting high school, I think we may pop the speakers though.
I lost my phone charger 15 miles back, but really, I'm not important enough for it to matter. Ryan didn't bring a phone, he only has a small duffle bag of nothing in particular, when we left I packed some things too, just in case. Just is case is now reality.
Every once is awhile we pull into an along the way gas station and pick up things of necessity; cigarettes, bruised fruit, Gatoraide. Nobody cares that we look to young to be on our own, nobody cares where we're from or who we are, they just want us to pay and leave them alone.
14 days after we've left we're eating in a truck stop diner we almost passed. The waitress looks about one hundred and five and tells us a story about when she was young, then she won't let us pay the bill because we remind her of friends she used to know. Ryan won't talk for two days after we were back on the road.
Then we get to the ocean, 22 days after leaving, I'm breathing brine and Ryan won't stop smiling. I don't know how long it's going to take us to get home.