meditations on a leather-bound journal, pt. xii

I kept telling myself I'd meet her there. I was so sure.

I imagined the scenario, played it out in my head dozens of times. "Liana?" I would ask, my voice smooth, calm, confident. I'd tap her on the shoulder. She'd turn around, smile at me--I still remember her smile, that beautiful smile--and say nothing. She'd put a finger to my lips, so I'd say nothing. And she'd wrap me in her embrace. We'd stand there, at a rest stop on I-90, somewhere between Ellensburg and Seattle, and everything would make sense.

I was so sure.

Well, as you might have guessed, no such luck. I missed the fucking exit. I can't tell you how fucking stupid I feel right now. Not like I missed it because I forgot, I missed it because I couldn't bring myself to hit the turn signal, to turn the wheel, to pull off, stop. The scenario in my head shattered into a million tiny pieces, each one of them razor sharp, piercing my ego, my heart, lacerating my psyche with a thousand little cuts. I nearly screamed.

And I'm not even sure how you pronounce Liana, anyway.

I can't sleep. I haven't slept since I got here. Or shaved. I only shower when I remember. I look like shit. People notice. I'm muttering her name, now. Liana. Such compelling beauty, such maddening beauty. Like an addict craving his fix, or maybe like a man from the darkness who's seen sunlight once and wants more, it burns him but he wants more, more. So beautiful.

Just one taste. Just one drink. Just once more.