I was halfway between Nowhere and the border of Somewhere-Else when the sky cracked open into a blue so artificial it felt like a government conspiracy. A color no natural element should rightfully possess—cerulean with a hint of smugness. The kind of sky that dares you to complain about your life because it’s obviously doing fine.
The birds were the first to notice me.
Not the polite suburban birds—no, these were highway prophets with feathers like cigarette smoke and tempers to match. One of them perched on the hood of my Mustang, pecked the logo curiously, and looked me dead in the eyes like it was demanding an explanation for my attempted exile.
I apologized.
It didn’t help.
By noon I had crossed into a town that didn’t exist on any map. You know the type: two diners, one gas station, and a bar that pretends it doesn’t know it’s supposed to be closed on weekdays. I ordered a coffee that tasted like the ghost of someone else’s bad decision.
That’s where I saw him.
The secret lover I wasn’t supposed to have, reading a book he absolutely wasn’t absorbing, flipping the pages too fast, mouthing the words like he was trying to seduce the alphabet. He looked at me the way someone looks at a storm they hope will hit a different town.
“Traveling?” he asked, which was his way of saying: You left without warning. Again.
“Research,” I lied. “I’m documenting migratory bird psychoses.”
He rolled his eyes—large, practiced arcs that suggested long-term exasperation.
“You’re not a scientist,” he said.
“Ah,” I replied, “but neither were most of the people who got quoted as if they were.”
Pseudo-intellectualism is a dance, and we were, unfortunately, excellent partners.
We left the bar without paying and walked down a sun-bleached street where every building leaned slightly left, like even the architecture had an opinion. The birds followed, circling overhead in a V-formation that felt more judgmental than aerodynamic.
“You know they’re watching us,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said. “They always do.”
We sat on the hood of the car and watched the horizon melt into gold. The sky had the audacity to soften into something beautiful, as if it wanted forgiveness for earlier. My secret lover told me he was thinking of disappearing again, this time without the courtesy of a postcard.
“You’ll write about me,” he said.
“Of course,” I answered. “Someone has to make you immortal.”
He smiled the kind of smile that makes poets drink heavily.
The birds screamed.
The sun surrendered.
And somewhere deep inside the California-blue sky, the universe shrugged in our general direction.
I started the engine. He didn’t get in. That’s the thing about secret lovers: they’re only supposed to come along for part of the road.
So I drove on, leaving him there with the birds and the infinite, mocking blue that watched everything like an all-seeing, pastel-colored deity.
I figured maybe the next town would have a sky with fewer opinions.
Or at least coffee that didn’t taste like regret.