Pickup Truck


The cup warms my hand as I lift it to my lips, grateful for the heat that slides down my throat as I sip at my coffee. It’s chilly in the kitchen where I sit, at the little breakfast table by the window. Toast and eggs sit before me, untouched. This is my third cup of coffee.

I watch as he trudges, wrench in hand, out to the old ford that has been planted in the yard like an oak since the day it broke down two years ago. It never gets any attention unless we fight. If he and I fight, that pickup truck becomes the most important thing in his world. The Ford’s rusted blue fender is dented and scratched, the hood a mismatched red the color of dried blood. And I sigh, seeing the similarities between the car and my husband as his shoulders slump, his hand goes to his back, sore from sleeping on the couch. He will work for a few hours or days, however long it takes him to work out what went wrong with us, or until I give in unconditionally and ask him to come back to bed.

I sigh and take another sip as he heaves up the hood of the ancient truck, searching for the problem, why the engine won’t turn over or the brakes don’t work.

I don’t know what’s wrong , I just know it isn’t working anymore. 



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