The Detour

The obstacles surmount, yet another detour sign flashes in front of my eyes. The familiar tingling spreads from the top of my head to the back of my nostrils and a blanket of warm waves permeates my innards. I envision two distinct versions of you, the one I long for and the one you are becoming. I detest myself for mismanaging our route. What appeared to be the straightest line on our map has become a dizzying array of twists and turns. Construction season bears down on us and the orange cones, road closure and detour signs are all beginning to swirl together. I glance at you and catch a chill as you stare off to the side with that vacant stare. As I dart through the cones, I continue to glance at you. I drift. I wait. I wait in anticipation for the frozen layer of your face to crack. My heart races and my breath quickens. I hope to see the lingering squint of your eyes after a hearty laugh and pronounced smile. As my desperate attempt at humor repeatedly fails, I press harder. My throat tightens and my lips quiver. I accelerate faster. A fork in the road is approaching, a wrong turn ensues. My despair has turned to venomous rage. I besiege you with words untrue in a hopeless attempt to break through. A single, glistening tear zigzags down your weary cheek, signifying the death of us. No words need be spoken. My gaze returns to what is suddenly now a wide open road. Numbness ensues.