The Downward Spiral

It starts off with a cool breeze in the evening. At first you don’t really notice it. You just continue to talk, explaining to me how Segways don’t belong on sidewalks, how they are pretentious and the “vehicle of assholes”. I sip my iced tea, nodding, enjoying the atmosphere of the terrace. I glance at the Segway rider in question. Indeed he looks like an asshole.

From across the patio, I notice the hair of a woman dressed in a business suit start to move in the breeze, as if attempting to take flight and plant its seed in some unfortunate soul’s drink. She, too, doesn’t seem to notice the foreshadowing.

I glance at my watch. 7:30 p.m.

Already the sky has begun its decay, slowly darkening, spreading like an ink stain on a favorite blouse. Its rotten aroma floats down from the heavens, fills my nostrils, forces me to cough. You keep talking, unaware.

Later that week I sit on the football field of Riverside High, watching as you play bike polo.

You are like a carefree child, giggling as you sprint downfield, entangling yourself in another rider. Looking skyward I see a flock of geese flying the hell away from here, forming what looks like a greater-than symbol.

Perhaps they are sending one final message back down to us, insisting they are above the seasons, that they are better than those who wish to tough it out. I contemplate their message, trying to decipher the formula.

It isn’t until later that evening that you look at me, fear in your eyes, and tell me you noticed the seasons changing. You explain how you just want to feel that sun on your face forever, to feel that warm westerly wind at your back, encouraging you to dive into the lake one more time. You grab my hand as we walk, as if you need someone to aid you along through these darker times. I look down at your brown skin, the true sign of an addict.

Memories of summer flood over me; that week in Maine with our family, countless rides and races, wonderful meals eaten on verandas, drinks shared with friends, the passing of our first year of marriage. I look towards September and am overwhelmed with sadness, not yet ready to say goodbye, yet strangely drawn to a new season like a junkie drawn to a new thrill. September, after all, is nothing more than a gateway month to winter.

I wonder how that Segway rider will get around.

[callie].