Maybe he didn't want to know.
Maybe he know it so well to be true that he'd rather pretend that it wasn't.
Maybe he knew she'd never tell him the truth.
After all, she probably wouldn't.
She wore too many rings and she hated her tattoo. Her boots were ripping at the soles and her hair was quite literally never done. She said Dali confused her but that's why she liked him. She said hats looked bad on her and there was always the smell of Marlboro Reds on her fingers. And she apologized daily because she knew he hated the smell and the taste and the habit. She did apologize, but she never did quite quit.
He realized then that he never asked. Because he knew this answer already: without her, he'd be less.
Less a person, less in love, less a warm body to roll over to in the morning. There is no accurate way to end something like that because the blood will be everywhere and you'll be less a friend to help clean it up.
They always walked because she hated the way he drove.
"Go faster," she said.
He obliged. But not enough.
He didn't want to know because it would mean the end of something like that and the blood would be everywhere and he would be less a friend to help clean it up.
The salty air was bitter on his tongue and he wished he could taste her Marlboro Red again. The beauty of togetherness had turned uglier than the sloppy words sprayed complacently on the wall. His "something bigger than himself" had gone on to hell, and he was left homeless under that overpass.
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