Stranded.

Predictability strikes. We blow out our tire near where your mother once lived. My insistence got us here. The driver fixes the car. I wander the twisted sidewalks and look for ghosts but find none. Trace the creek but get nauseous thinking about leeches.

“This place is a mess, huh?” my driver says.

“Flooded.”

“We’re on level terrain.”

“Not level enough for the Irish.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He takes the opportunity to change his clothes, which really just means replacing the old white t-shirt with another one and throwing it into a duffel bag. We must look a little strange. When you see him, you will ask where I found him and I won’t tell you. I have not changed since the wedding. I can’t recall if you’ve ever seen me wearing lavender before.

“Place is a dump.” My driver says, trying to usher me back into the car.

“I knew someone whose family is from here.” I tell him.

“Who?”

“A friend.” I say. He rolls his eyes.

“Right. Well. It’s a dump.”

The ride over the grass is bumpy until we find the main road. It’s after midnight now. I’m officially into my twenties.

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