in an attempt to avoid writing, she got in the car and started driving. first stop: the gas station for a fountain coke and a pack of cigarettes. the day was rainy, drops falling steadily on a windshield then being swept away seconds later by wipers lazily moving back and forth, back and forth. the slightly cracked window let the smoke out and tiny drops in.

she shivered a bit because of the chill and so turned the heat on. full blast. sticking her free hand in front of the vent to warm her fingers.

she had come to prefer Arizona in the rain. too much sun, she decided. no place should be that sunny. weather, she determined, should match the moods of humans. that is why seasonal weather made so much more sense, for sometimes she felt icy, sometimes warm and fuzzy, still others boiling and lazy like the summer months. she sometimes dreamed of living in Seattle, where the rain would match her dominant mood.

today, she was feeling especially gray and yet strangely giddy that the earth felt the same. she drove for nearly an hour, hardly noticing the scenery in all its familiarity. it was all the same, all the time. miles of grassless terrain, full of dessert foliage, mostly cacti and bush, brown dead-looking plants leading to the base of the mountains she loved. mountains on three sides, and then even on the fourth, distant shadows of mountains.

her husband had moved them here, to follow his band. as a writer, she had no need to object, for she could work anywhere. and she loved him. but she hated being stagnant and they had been here for nearly a year and the band had gone nowhere. he worked at Best Buy part-time to pay the bills and she wrote articles for a local magazine.

so she drove. south in the direction of Tucson. the rain falling steadily down and the sky promising more of the same. she smoked three cigarettes then stopped at McDonalds for lunch and wrote the next chapter of her novel.

re: festival for freedom

The truth is, they had been lovers for many months now. His first, her second. But they loved each other, deeper possibly than they had ever loved anyone else in their lives. He was drawn to her artistic free-spirit; she to his quiet, confident nature.

They told each other everything, including her dreams to travel abroad and his desires to take care of her. His parents didn't understand and her parents didn't care. They planned to marry, to live like hippies, supertramps backpacking the country, sleeping on the beach and the sides of roads. She dreamed of singing her songs to strangers and he envisioned holding her in his arms.

Two weeks ago, they started arguing. It started with her distance, shrugging him off, not talking. He asked about her silence but she didn't answer. Then she became easily agitated, nitpicking his shoes and hair. Eventually, driven to dispair, he began talking and yelling. Sometimes she responded; sometimes not. She no longer allowed him to hold her and began refusing to see him.

Three weeks ago, she found out she was pregnant. A baby was a weight, she knew, to hold her down and chain her forever. Scared and just 17, she cut herself free a week later then cried for three days.

This would be the last time she saw him, this Freedom Festival, for she had packed her backpack and guitar and would be leaving town. She would kiss him good-bye and walk away. He would call on her tomorrow, only to find a note of her intention. He would never know why, even as an old man, but would miss her still.