Writers' Block
a contribution from our AWA Writers' Group members Written by Rhonda Bernstein
One For The Road After ten more minutes of driving through bitter, black moonless nothing, Loretta’s stomach felt like something in the early stages of sick, as Mick navigated the Honda down the sloping, serpentine highway. “Mick, can you please go faster, but still smooth on the curves?”
Mick’s logic, that he’d had enough food to absorb the after-dinner drink, did not sit well with Loretta. She felt her eyes squint, her forehead squish and her jaw gently clench. A headache was coming on, and she knew that would likely make the stomach swell worse.
“Everything OK?” Mick almost shouted. Loretta pushed her hands deeper into her coat pockets. They both had to talk over the rock radio station’s latest hits that helped keep Mick awake, but Loretta thought Mick tended to overestimate how loud his voice needed to be in order to be heard, or he just had too much darn earwax build-up.
Loretta could just make out the next curve, and on cue she took a big breath, held it for four seconds, then let her breath out over four. Four rounds of this should get her through another road stretch. 4,3,2 .... “Mick, turn off the radio. Roll the windows down, now! Please. “
“I’m starting to feel off. If I can just make it to the ski slope signs without upchucking, I should be fine. Just get us home, pleeease.”
“Don’t talk! I’m carsick.”
“I’m trying Lor. I’m trying.” Why couldn’t she travel for once from Boston back to Hanover without feeling queasy? Anticipating the two-hour drive home, she had turned down any offer of alcohol at dinner. And she had politely refused even small tastes of the recommended spicy dishes from the latest North Indian restaurant sensation that Mick had been dying to try. “The food lived up to the hype, but that Rampur Single Malt was an unexpected bonus. It prepped my taste buds for the heat from all that chili, and then, after the meal, smoothed it all away. The perfect spice sandwich.” Mick chuckled. “A club spice sandwich if you count the third double I had with the meal, Lor. It complemented the spice just right!” “I can’t do this right now. No food talk.” Loretta groaned. “Oh, sure. Sorry. I get that. But that whiskey sure went down right.” Loretta leaned her head against the window hoping the coolness of the glass would soothe her. It didn’t. She muttered, “Maybe two would have been enough.” “What?” “The drinks. If you hadn’t ordered that third double, we could have left for home right away instead of trying to walk it off.” The AWA Writers’ Group meets the second and fourth Thursday of each month. For more information, send an email to writers@ awasingapore.org -- 24 26 --
“Sure thing Lor. Are you al...” “Should I pull over?” “No! Just get home—no more noise!” A shock whoosh of chill coming in at 60 mph slowed her rising nausea better than any pretty pink antacid could have done. “Mick, the radio,” she hissed, as she simultaneously reached for the console. “I got it. I got it,” he repeated aloud, thinking silently, Stop nagging. Their hands clashed at the control panel. As if allergic to the sting of each other’s touch, both jerked their fingers away abruptly. In that moment they heard a big, hollow-sounding thud. “Pull over!” Loretta gasped, just as Mick cried out, “Oh my God, what did we hit? What did I do?” On the shoulder of the road, Loretta leaned over and vomited up saag paneer. She paused to catch her breath before scooping up a bit of snow to wipe her mouth and taste a bit of clean. “What if we hurt something? You shouldn’t have had that ‘one for the road’ whiskey. “ “You should have said something at the restaurant,” Mick answered, as he inspected the new dent just on the outside of the right headlight. “I know. But I just want you to know it yourself.” Loretta joined Mick where he was standing. They both tried to figure out what animal the dent resembled and they wondered together if that poor thing needed help. They held onto some small hope that it was just a big rock in the road that had bounced up. Should they call 911? The silent forest offered no clues and its undergrowth stretched away to nothingness.
AWA Magazine - May/Jun 2021
