All is dark on the northern front. San Francisco is lit up like embers across the bay. We are whistling south on the 101, moving closer every minute to the red cabled slopes of the Golden Gate and to that concentrated, low-burning city. The roof is open and the cold midnight is getting sucked right down into our seats and I am as alive as I’ve ever been, sitting in the 80mph dark next to your slow-burning heart.
We aren’t saying much, just circling through the tracks on your phone to find the ones we like, and taking noisy deep breaths of the darkness. I think that 90% of the time I’m with you is laughing, and 5% of it is talking about weighty things and 4% is talking about foolish things, and that leftover one percent is the sliver we spend in almost-silence. All of my skin is prickling with beautiful missable input, the quiet dividends of post-communion. Mammoth tides are pulsing beneath our non-words, my ears are humming with tentative hopes, my hands are restless for yours. Our silences are never really silent, just sub-aural exchanges.
We rocket onto the bridge–thin lighted arc through the dark–and the black sea spreads out in all directions beneath us like an inverted night. We’re totally untethered from the earth. I stand up in my seat, head and shoulders all the way through the roof, the wind so loud in my ears that I think I’ll never hear again and that’s not even sad. Wind is tearing into my eyes until tears (hot and filmy) stream over the sides of my face and into my hairline. For a moment you’re poking your head through the roof too, your eyes only half on the road, fingertips on the wheel, trying to stay in the slim golden lane–I’m nervous, but the bridge is almost empty and the night is so beautiful. There is no room for caution.
The feeling still pumps through my windy skull on the other side of the bridge as we slump down and rebuckle our seatbelts: no room for caution. This (you, your light) is too beautiful.