If I told you I was staying because of my mechanic or the shoreline or the movies blooming in the middle of trash or the marriage counselor who got me off the hook by saying, you two should definitely not be together, would you believe me? Or would you shrug and say, you do love that dumb-ass, Hot Wheel-looking car, and sip your Latte and say, Bulldog visitation is a really bad idea. If I kept the rest of it to myself; the part about driving into the wildflower hills and buying organic honey and bringing some back to that sweet man who fixes my car and doesn't know half his customers are in love with him, would you still know somehow?

If I told you I wanted to drive up the coast with my crow’s feet and Aviators and a playlist twelve hours long, would it make you smile? Eating my trail mix until I spotted a bad-for-me burger stand or the sun gave way to droplets and fog and the Redwoods started looking healthy again?

If I told you I was leaving because this city’s just too much, would you say, whatever you need to do or you’ve been talking about it forever, just go? Would you be surprised if I pointed to the window and said, I won’t miss this, but I’m going to miss you? Would you forgive me for the time you said things would get better and I took the corner too fast and drove to the fountain where we had the epic fight and I said, Right here, remember? Don’t you remember? And you didn’t say yes or no or if you even remembered. You just looked out the window and said, you love this car too much.