Page 5 of Give Me Perfect Love

My blood pumps steady through my veins, and my throat hurts from the lump inside because I want to cry with relief.

I am almost free. Sweaty palms struggle to hold my suitcase, but I hold on to it with white knuckles.

My eyes look down the road, and my heart jumps from its diving board straight into the dark pit of my stomach when I see his car coming with the bus right behind.

Panic suffocates me, causing my lungs to freeze. Without thought, I quickly dip and hide on the other side of the bus stop awning.

He flies by, splashing summertime rain that has puddled on the road.

And I swear to God, he looks in the rearview.

The bus pulls up, our eyes lock for a split second, and I say everything in that moment I’ve wanted to say for years.

I say goodbye to that piece of shit, goodbye to a sorry existence I no longer would live, and I mentally flick off that whole town before I hurry between the open doors.

He sees me; I know he does.

And part of me is glad.

Glad for him to know I’m gone. Glad for him to know I did it. I got out, just like she did.

I wait for his car to pull up beside the bus for miles. But it never happens.

__________

The raggedy bus hits every pothole imaginable as we enter into Atlanta. It’s early, and I know I need to find somewhere to sleep for the night. My money is rolled tightly inside a deep pocket in my purse.

That’s my lifeline and I hold on to it firmly.

The brakes on the bus squeal and moan as we come to a stop, and I decide this is as good a place as any to get off.

I stand on shaky legs and walk to the front. The driver swings the doors open, and I step out onto the street.

High on adrenaline, but still scared shitless, I walk until I see a small diner. I step inside the place, noticing its foggy windows from the blasting air conditioner.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, hon,” the waitress yells over to me.

I nod and slide into a booth, resting my purse closely to my side and my suitcase on the floor.

I’m not even hungry. I just need a place to figure out my next move. The waitress walks over to me.

“What can I get ’cha?” She’s lip smacking, gum chewing, and has a pile of buttery curls on her head. Her makeup is too heavy, and she is showing way too much cleavage, but I like the way her eyes look.

They’re aged and have a few wrinkles around the edges, but they tell a story. One that says she’s been there, done that.

“Um, how about coffee?”

“All right, coming right up.”

I put the menu back and stare out the window. People continue to pass by in their own worlds as I think about what the hell I’m going to do in mine.

I did it.

I left.

Is this what my mom felt like all those years ago? I pick at the skin beside my thumb and try to control the anxiousness I feel.

New place.

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