At the age of 45, Peter lost momentum.
I write more, then delete it, then repeat the process over again, then again. The backs of his dry hands. The whine of bare tires on asphalt. The crunch of gravel as the truck pulls to a stop. The silence. The hum of insects. The smell of dust settling. The distortion of the smudged windshield. The tickle of sweat running down the back of his neck. The unwillingness to even look up. It is all there one minute then gone the next.
The truck’s silence is a protest. It is the one thing Peter knows. The truck could easily move on. It is Peter who has lost momentum, not the truck. It is the difference between stopped and stuck. Peter knows this in the silence, knows it in the worn shine of the key still swinging in the ignition, knows it in the heat of the sun on his arm in the window.
Note: Originally posted on brandnewmonster.com