Part III of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."
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Driving down the interstate at 2am, Juanita glanced at her phone again. No missed calls. That wasn't like Michael. He must have been tired. He wouldn't be doing anything untoward. He wasn't like that. "Because he's spineless," her unconscious mind pushed through. Fuck that. She lit up another cigarette and pushed her clunker past 65. Its even possible the wire had been severed. There wasn't much coming through the wire. Just the old memories of times gone past, the intense heat of passion that had now yielded to routine, to the same old shit. Oh how those days had passed so quickly, oh how they scorched her lip and tongue just thinking about it. Unbeknownst to Michael, she kept all the old letters from the wire. She could almost remember every word.
"Do you remember that, sweetheart? Do you remember that feeling? We waded through the free waters of a day that felt like it would dawn with such brilliance and never end. It was like a renewal; a glimmer of hope in a world that had shunned and trampled over us. You held that pain in your heart for so long; you long seized that the notion of this life was meant to be a struggle. That you were waiting for the day it would all come down. We went out on our limbs and spread our arms wide to catch each other. Sometimes, it was if you fell backwards and in the act of catching you, you had already fallen to the floor. Even so, our love is so great it can weather any storm.
We had this promise made, we were in love."It could've been true; everything that was said in those pages sent over the wire - but then again, it could've all been bullshit. The prick disappeared without a trace, almost. He was back somewhere, working on his problems without a care in the world for anyone else. There was love but no trust. All the wires she thought that were connected both ways were just shadows; her mind playing tricks on her. There was even doubt that the wires ever existed, or that they always had. It was a constant battle of probability fighting uncertainty.
As the cigarette snuffed itself out and ash scattered across the dashboard, it occurred to her that she was no where near home. She was going to the place where she lived. So many things on her mind - every topic and subject conceivable except for herself. If she wasn't thinking of her, then who was? The wire didn't have the answer. So who would? Would anyone?