My ex-fiancé had asked me to hang out — as friends — and being ever-eager not to hold bad blood without good reason, I agreed. We must have been in New Jersey for some reason, because after we spent some time together, he was driving me back home to Philadelphia over the bridge. In the car on the way back, he was saying, “So that was nice. Just like old times.”

“Yeah, it was good,” I conceded.

“So we’ll get back together. There’s no reason not to.”

“What? No. There’s all kinds of reasons not to. I ended things for reasons. And just because we’re getting along doesn’t mean we should be together. I mean, I’m living with someone, for Chrissakes.”

He fell silent, hurt. Offended. And just as he gunned the car up to 80, 95, 110 miles per hour, the overpasses and turns in the road became dangerously arced, like the tracks of roller coasters. They swung out over the river and twisted back, aiming at the concrete banks just before jutting back up to staggering heights.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, terrified.

“Just say it! Just say yes! Do it!” he barked, navigating the road/tracks hazardously close to the edge.

“Please, stop, you’ll kill us both!” I was sobbing.

“I don’t fucking care! Say it!”

“OK, OK, I love you, we’ll be together, just stop it, stop it please…” blinded by tears and snot, delirious with fear.

We got home and he was smiling and helping me with my bags like nothing had happened. I snatched them back and stormed off, and he asked, “hey, what the hell?”

The dream ended with me screaming at him, asking him if he knew what a psycho he was, asking if he thought that threatening my life would somehow make me love him. Dumbstruck, he had absolutely no idea how he’d done anything wrong.

1/5/10—thewordunheard