Where Were You Last Night?

He finally threw the car in gear and inched onto the icy street. Mornings were considerably easier sober. There was no shaking. No fog. A few months ago a morning like this one would have been unthinkable. At the post office, he collected several bills and was about to close the box when he saw a smaller letter wedged in the back corner. He tugged it free and saw that it was dated last week. He saw the return address, too. He didn ’t open it. Instead, he walked back to the car and laid the envelope on the seat next to him. Even though the car was already cold again, he didn ’t turn the key. He remembered the last thing Dave had said to him. Paul still had three more weeks to go in the clinic, but Dave was done that day. When his ride came into the parking lot Dave had turned to Paul and he said, “Call me when you get out. ” Then he left. Paul hadcalled. But Dave never picked up. Sometime later, Dave ’ s mom had called him. She called him several more times, each time more fraught.

He sat in the cold car, staring at the envelope next to him. He didn ’t open it. He didn ’t need to. Where Were You Last Night?

Nilay Gingade

Where wereyou lastnight?

My mind drifts into reality. Wherever I am… I’ m not quite sure…it’ s almost morning. The sun peeks out over the horizon, almost like an actor looking out between the curtains… its light turning the sky into lurid blood.

Where areyou?

I sit up. Push myself off the mud. Take inventory of myself; the last thing I remember was going home… going… no, I remember thatwoman. I

The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism

was opening my door and it was dark and raining and there was this woman under this flickering street lamp, standing in the rain. She was on the other side of the street, with no cover, no umbrella, just getting drenched. The woman seemed to be waiting, but for what it wasn ’t clear. Occasionally she ’d push loose drippy strands of her raven hair from her eyes… or look around as if, maybe, her patron had arrived.

Where areyou?

A woosh behind me. Almost sounds like thunder. It’ s behind me. I’ m in a field—a red barn and silos and a farmhouse on one side, a silver goat grazing out in the distance. This grass has been chewed to but an inch. I look around—behind me; a freeway. The interstate. And parked on the side of the road is a car—an old blue Ford pickup, old tarp in the bed. Innocuous. People don ’t notice it; it' s the best quality. Attention is rending.

Whatareyou doing here?

Like a moth to a flame, I feel drawn to something—someone, to my left. It feels almost alive. I stand up, and walk, muck sticking to the soles of my feet. I walk towards that goat. That silver goat on the other side of the field… that goat with gilded horns and cogent words... it stands up on its two legs and stares… stares at me with its beady dead dyes… and I blink, and it’ s gone. But I can feel it. I can feel it in the air. It’ s beating in my ears. Like glass scraping at the inside of my skull. Like knives in my eyes. Something is wrong.

I run, run as fast as possible, towards that wretched spot where the goat stood. And instead, I find a hole. A hole marked by a spade planted like a flag in the dirt. Eight feet long, three feet wide, six feet down; in that hole is the woman, the woman in the rain, and the woman is at the bottom of the hole.

Whatdidyou do?

No, no, no. I turn around. For a second, it feels… only a second. Glance back at my truck. I just gotta get my head on straight. I gotta fix this. I grab my shovel and turn back… I just gotta clean this up. Clean up this

The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism