Babel

The car, coursing down the sunny summer freeway, is the perfect incubator. One hundred fifty-something miles ahead of them, eleven years of marriage behind them, the alignment of opportunity and necessity a lesson in psycho-spiritual geometry. Pythagoras would have been proud.

"Can we talk about something?" she asks.

"Sure," he says, turning down the radio and absently shifting his weight as he drives, steadying himself. "Like what?"

"Well, I don't know--nothing, really," code for Get Ready, this is going to take a while... "I just was wondering about some stuff."

"What stuff?"

The road stretches on ahead, black mirage-water puddles appearing and disappearing one after the other. The silence isn't bad, just is. Then:

"You're not as nice to me as you used to be," she says, finally, and looks at him, knowing this will need an explanation, but watching for his reaction first, to gauge which explanation to use. She has several.

"I'm not?" he looks at her, honestly asking, leaving the car to the road for several seconds.

"Not saying you're mean," she insists, squeezing his knee, assuring him. "Just not as nice--like in the little ways--that you used to be."

"Hmmm," he mumbles, turning his eyes back to the road, noticing he mirage puddles, tucking under the car at a greater pace. "Maybe it would be helpful to know, specifically, what you mean by nice," he says. "Because, to me, not as nice means pretty close to the same as mean...so....I'm confused."

"You're not getting it," she says, letting go of his knee and facing deliberately forward. "It's like you're trying to make an argument out of this and I'm just trying to talk."

"I'm just trying to talk, too," he says, feeling the pitch of his voice elevating, adjusting his hips in the seat again. "I'm sure as hell not trying to fight--I was just driving...All I asked was for a definition of what you mean by not as nice."

She faces him again. "Alright. This, right now, actually, is a good example. All I'm trying to do is talk. And you're either defensive or just not in the mood, preoccupied, whatever--but it's obvious you're not really into it."

Sighing, loudly, he re-affects his grip on the steering wheel, purposely letting some time pass. "Hey," he starts, "I love you. I want to be nice to you. I want to be nicer to you than I've ever been before. But, since I think I am being nice to you and you think I'm not, I just need some help understanding your definition of what nice means." He looks at her. "Is that unreasonable."

"No," she allows. It's not unreasonable. It's just not nice."

"Holy crap."

"Not nice in the way you used to be years ago."

"You've lost me."

"Before, you never would argue with me the way we do now--the way you are right now!"

"I wouldn't have?"

"No way...."

"What would I have done--what did I do, back then, when we talked about stuff? What did I do when we argued?"

"Well, for one, we didn't argue very much."

"But we did talk...right?"

"Of course. A lot."

"And we agreed on everything, always? I don't remember that."

"Don't patronize me; I didn't say that....My point, in case you care about the point instead of caring about shutting me up, is that, before, even if we did disagree or something, you were nice about it. Respectful. Loving. Nice....I'm sorry if I can't explain it better. I just know nice when I see it."

"Me too."

"What?"

"I'm not an idiot, either. I know what nice is. ..and, frankly, I think I'm nice. Not perfect, obviously. But nice. How am I not nice?"

"You wear me out."

"You ain't alone."

"Feels like it."

"Whatever."

"Whatever."

Ahead, on the freeway, a murder of crows takes flight from a deer carcass, the sun shimmering in waves off the pavement.

Fifty miles later, she opens her eyes from a frown-filled, neck-cramped nap. He's been watching her and feels a flat sense of gladness to see her waking up. He's missed her. She smiles at him.

"I love you," he says.

"I love you, too."

"I'll work on being nicer."

"I'll work on being more articulate."

They smile at each other. She touches his leg. He holds her hand.

"It's too hot in here," she says.

"I know," he responds and rolls down the window, the A/C irritates her throat.

"Not so far!" she chimes, her hair blowing madly, "I hate that wind in the car!"

"Sorry," he says and rolls up the window. "Not sure how to cool it down without the wind or A/C."

She stares at him--eye-darts--and slowly shakes her head, incensed and fuming, the frustration incendiary.

He drives on, his face like the Sphinx. Adding up the miles in his head.

-parnell