She says it pulled over on a dirt road,
on the way to her daughter’s wedding.
The air is dry and arid,
and it forces itself down her throat.
Bruce Springsteen's raspy voice is crooning on the radio
and her knuckles tap in time with the warbles of a saxophone.
They pulled over because she said it.
Because it flew out of her wrinkled mouth
on the way to her youngest daughter’s wedding.
The radio is abruptly shut off,
but her knuckles keep tapping
and Bruce keeps singing
and the saxophone keeps playing.
Four words tumbled clumsily
bundled together with strings of white ribbon.
He sips a drink,
a frosty coca-cola bottle
dripping crystal pendants onto the heated, sweaty leather seats.
She says it again.
Her knuckles stop tapping and she says it a third time,
once for each daughter.
He nods,
and takes another sip of coca-cola.
She says it twice more,
five times for each decade
they've spent on opposite sides of a lumpy mattress
pretending that the wind and sound of stars exploding was enough to drown out the silence that lies between them.
“I never loved you.”  She breathes humming a tune.
He nods,
once, twice, three times, and five times.
He fits the key into the ignition and Bruce’s voice comes out between them.
Her knuckles resume their tapping,
the coca-cola bottle resumes its clinking,
and the words fly out the window.