I’ll Move to the Country
written by: Michael Silas Carter
I’m finally coming up on your stop. Been trying to get these groceries to you sooner, but I think I took the wrong bus. The ice cream will refreeze, I’m sure, but I’ve got to be rid of them. I couldn’t keep them, I don’t even like cucumbers. When I get to you, I’ll carry them up the rickety stairs of your complex that is already forgetting itself. I’ll knock on your door, and sharp-faced, you’ll collect them from me. Platitudes will flood the halls. I’ll be washed all the way back to my bus, and I won’t have to see you anymore. The stop is coming up. Just around the corner if I remember right. Honestly, I’m always lost in the city. The roads shift like intestines. Once, after dancing, I almost fell into the fleshy asphalt because it moved. Funny, I thought I heard you laughing. The bus stop has got to be close. The driver is impatient. Everyone is impatient. They want me to get rid of these groceries. That’s got to be your place: the windows like a fish’s eye, the white trim like teeth. The bus keeps going. The driver knows. He’s certain, concrete. His hands grip the steering wheel, never straying. His hands, a tan deeper than the rest of him. He catches my eye in the mirror sometimes, and I find the border of sympathy. He makes another steady turn, he parts the city like a surgeon with a scalpel. The fellow passengers hold their breath. They are anesthesia that promises relief. I breathe deep. The stop’s going to be right ahead. I’ll make sure. There, I will leave the bus, I will leave the bags on a street corner. I will forget your face, recite emptiness until it’s all I know. I will move somewhere that doesn’t breathe when I’m not looking. Or, I will find a different route where the passengers don’t know me or your groceries or the end.
- I’ll Move To The Country - October 7, 2025
