Escaping the Strip

Headlights probe the fabric of evening as the V8’s purr and the tires grind upon the pavement. The signal clicks and flashes in rhythm to the beat on the radio. Spin the wheel, and slip through the parking lot. Wave at friends sprawled across their chariots, arms draped around other equally lonely misfits. Emptiness lures them to sit under neon lights, staring into faces profiled in shadow, touching lips and caressing with light fingertips. Cigarettes puncture the cool night air with a sizzle, and whoosh, the nicotine tamps down fear. Those flying solo watch with anticipation and suppressed jealousy.

Around the drive-through. Not tonight, no cash, barely enough for the gas. Clearasil and sweat compete with loneliness and desperation.

Once again, the golden arches. Another right, around the drive-through. Left onto Main St., back the way came. Constant motion, but no progress. Rats on the exercise wheel. Just enough freedom to maintain the illusion but not enough for escape.

©2022 Greg Miller (P)2025 Greg Miller