Where are we coming from, she took her eyes from the window and asked me. I answered,
middle America, but it was not the answer she was looking for.
The
clouds were stringy that day; I know this because she pointed it out. Told me a story about being a child on long drives to
Texas and imagining a
mouse trying to keep up with the clouds outside her window. The sky was blue but the sun was setting quickly, turning it all shades of reds and oranges and
hues of purple.
I kept thinking, why is she asking where we are coming from, when she should be asking,
where are we going? I didn't get it. She didn't get it. We were two feet away from each other but we were going to miss each other by miles.
I wanted her to tell me more about the clouds. I thought if she would only keep talking, ten more minutes, ten more stories. I tried to tell my own story,
something that did not quite relate enough but had to do because it was all I had. But she turned her eyes back out to the window, she shut up;
she shut me out.