Love Letter

By on May 30, 2011 in Contest Winners

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Ferris wheel with superimposed fractal

The first time we went to the carnival I got so scared on the Ferris wheel that I pissed my pants.  I know exactly when it happened.  They speed up the wheel just as it’s entering its final spin.  I had put on a brave face until then, refusing to tell you that I’m afraid of heights.  I wanted to impress you.  First date.  When we got off the ride, you stepped off in front of me, and I walked closely behind you, arms thrown over your shoulders, careful not to let my crotch touch you.  When we turned a corner and were away from people, I spun you around with both hands.  Looking into your eyes made you think I wanted a kiss.  I saw them close ever so slightly in anticipation.  “I pissed myself.”  You looked down at my pants and laughed hysterically.  You finally stopped laughing.  I tried to rub the red from my cheeks.  We snuck to the car and you took me home.  I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.

“I can drive.”  You snatched the keys from my hand and jaunted to the driver’s side door.  I had doubts but You’ve done it before I thought to myself.  I could tell you were drunk.  Your voice gets playful and childlike and you smile even bigger than usual.  But, the ride was smooth. We talked a little. We laughed a lot.  You turned onto the highway and stopped just beyond the yield sign. 

“Are you okay?”

“I got it!”  We get on the highway safely, despite the glares of the women you nearly cut off.  We talk a little.  We laugh a lot.  You go quiet.  The sun shines through the roof.  I smile.  Another day, another dollar.  Our truck veers slightly to the right.  I look at you with a curious grin.  You smile back.  We ride smoothly for another half mile.  The truck veers gently to the left.  I look again.  This time… a little less grin. 

“I can drive.”

“I got it!”  We ride smooth.  The car veers toward the median.  I look over.  You’re leaning on the door, hands still on the wheel.  You sit up and wipe your mouth.  I grab the wheel to steady it. 

“Did you drink after the cough pill?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“That may be important to know.” 

“I don’t know.”

“Pull over!” 


“Pull over _____________!” 

You slap my hands.  “No!”  Two minutes later we were off the highway and sitting in the yard of a strange house.  “Thank God nobody’s home.”  You stagger around the car, balancing yourself with one hand pressed against it.  “I think you should drive.”  I took the keys and held the passenger door open for you.  You sat down facing me, feet out the car.  I smiled.  You smiled.  We talked a little.  We laughed a lot.  I got in the car, gently pulled out of the yard, careful to avoid a garden gnome, and took us home.

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Michael Turner is a married father of one and a high-school English teacher in Kansas City, Missouri. He has not previously been published.