I wanted her to tell me --I can't love you.

I picked up the ring I'd exchanged my own for down in Venezuela, with the girl who made me feel free. Free enough, at least, to break ties. I slid it on my finger. It was made of an ocean shell. I drove to the airport.

I was not late. She was surprised.

Quietly, I put her stuff in the trunk and just thought of saying "I met someone who makes me happy." I was too happy to see her. I must have been insane to ask her here.

The girl from Venezuela was far away, and only her ring reminded me that she may still love me. Didn't matter though, I thought as we drove home from the airport, together again. I had said three little words to someone else, someone who was not now beside me, someone who was not now going to build a home with me.

After driving a while she turned to me and said: --It's from Venezuela isn't it?

--What?

--Your ring is from Venezuela.

--Maybe. I don't know. I've never been there.

--Yes you have.

--How do you know?

--Because its the only place you didn't send me a postcard from. You met someone there in Venezuela and she gave you that ring, and you gave her yours. Right?

Her voice was calm. She stared out at the yellow line dividing the highway.

I was about to say something like, "What are you talking about?" "What makes you think?" but she answered me, screaming, before I could say one dumbfounded syllable.

--You didn't send me a postcard from Venezuela! She turned away and bit on her angry red thumbnail.

--You love her don't you, she raised her voice.

--Yes, I said.

--You love her more than me.

--No, I said. But I am happier.

--You're not happy with me.

--You make me nervous, I said. I am always nervous around you.

--Because you're afraid of commitment.

--Yes, I conceded. I thought it was better to agree now.

There was a pause during which I realized that it had really started out wrong, we had gotten off the wrong foot. She opened the window and cried in the wind. She did not want to be touched. I kept my hands on the hard wheel, my eyes on the road.

--It's over, she said, without looking at me. You ruined everything we had, anything we could have had.

--I came back here to....

I didn't get a chance.

--You came back to torture me. Why did you even tell me? I'm worthless to you.

She went on and on for a few minutes, saying that she meant nothing to me, how could I do this, and other things that made me quite sad, but I did not turn my eyes from the road. I kept looking straight ahead.

Finally she stopped and looked at me, and saw that I was not looking at her but at the road. She thought I was thinking about something else, that I didn't care.

--I love you, I said. I didn't know what I was doing.

--But you don't want to sleep with me, you want to drag me along with you, you're playing with me.

She went on some more. It didn't make any sense to me. I was being very clear, I thought. She wanted me to tell her straight, and I did, I said what I wanted, I said: --I want to be close to you, I don't want to lose you. She closed the window. She took a deep breath.

--It's either me or her. She said this flatly, without an ounce of emotion. I swear, I never thought she could be so cold; as cold as I have been, she didn't feel a thing. She couldn't. I refused to answer the question. She brooded for a while. I watched the road ahead and we kept going.

--Give me that ring, she said.

--No.

--Give it to me. She was yelling now.

--No.

She took my hand off the steering wheel. I jerked it back. She did it again. The third time she did it I decided to let her have her way.

--Take it, I said. Letting her weasel it off my finger, tearing my skin. With the ring off now she threw my hand down and put the ring in her mouth.

--You son of a bitch, she said, slurring the words, her mouth full of the ring. She looked out the window, considering her options.

--What are you doing? I asked, and in reply I heard a swallowing sound.

The day was going rather poorly already. And I hadn't even told her the worst.

--You know what, I said calmly, gathering my strength, you know what, I am going to get that ring out of you if it's the last thing I do.

I probably didn't want her to take control like she always did, I wanted to make the choice myself and I didn't want to make any choices. I was at the wheel now.

We drove a long time without speaking to each other. The radio was silent; we had passed out of its range and neither of us moved to turn the dial.

She asked me to stop the car, because she wanted to pee. I pulled over near a field of tall grass. She preferred to go to a rest area, but I refused. I asked her if she wanted to pee or shit. --Both, she said.

I waited for her by the car, taking note of where she had gone. Soon she was strolling back, her dress waving, faltering like a sail in still waters. She did not look at me. She got into the car. I put the keys in my pocket and took a few long strides into the field. I found her pile. A few gnats hovered over its warmth. I broke away some of the long grass around the spot and knelt down. I put my hands into her droppings and squeezed each separate piece of feces, looking hard. There was nothing hard to be found in any of it. Airplane food. I scraped my hands off on some dry weeds and went back to the car.

Next stop was a truckers' joint, where I ordered for the two of us. Mashed potatoes, gravy, some meat loaf. She was vegetarian, but she was hungry. I ordered a few cups of bad coffee for her to wash it down.

We got back in the car and she was crying. It stunk. The wheel was smeared. I drove on. I didn't know where I was and I didn't care. We drove until she had to go again. We stopped near a forest. It was getting dark. She went behind some rocks. I took a leak behind a tree. She went back to the car. She looked all dried out, her face was caked with salt. She did not look back at me. Behind the rock I found her feces in a pile mixed with pine needles. I squeezed each small brown pellet, crying from the stench. The urine stung my hands.

And then something slipped onto my finger, feeble and blackened. Charred. I wiped it on the moss growing over the south side of the ice-age stone. I spat on it gently and found some leaves with which to polish it. The light coral color began to reappear. I slipped it on my finger and watched as my thumb turned it round and round. For a moment I wondered which side of the circle was most becoming. I couldn't see too well in the gathering darkness. I felt my way back to the edge of the road.

Where was she? All her stuff, or most of it, was in the trunk and back seat. Silly stuff, stuff you bring when you are building a home for yourself in a new place, in a city that's more like a settlement, even if you're temporary. Maybe something was missing: her small backpack from the front seat. I called out a few times. Her name felt lost in the woods. She was always a hitchhiker at heart, I reflected. But where would she go if she had no home?

I approached the driver's seat, and sighed with strange relief. The key fit smoothly into the ignition. It turned as if by itself and the engine hummed wearily. Another long drive. I flipped around in the glove compartment for a map, I got shit on the registration, and realized that I did not know which map I needed. I had been watching the road but hadn't noticed a single road sign. I guessed the best thing to do was to drive on until I found one. I had a life to get back to, and it had nothing to do with her. Or with Venezuela, for that matter. I put the car in first and looked in the rear view mirror: no cars. Wonder how she ever got a ride out of here....

The car jumped forward and sagged down on the left side, scraping the road. The gravel rubbed up intimately against the underbelly. I stopped with two wheels on the road and got out. Both tires, driver's side, multiple stab wounds. She was very hard to be with. I knew that she would be. I could smell the shit coming up from my hands. All I could think of was I was deep in it. I got in the car and cried. I did not wipe my eyes. I couldn't touch anything. I couldn't even pinch myself. I wanted someone to run over my hands, to rid me of them. When I had stopped crying, I cleared my eyes with my forearms. The stench inside was nauseating. I got out.

In the distance I saw someone coming closer. I waited till she came near. I thought about what to say: "Thanks," or, "I love you," or "You're a real bitch, you know that?" I ended up keeping quiet.

--Can I bum a ride, man, she said.

--Sure, 'cept my tah-yers is flat. Stabbed in the heart.

--That's too bad, man. Can I bum a smoke then?

--Don't smoke, I said, and stood, stoic. I didn't flinch.

--You stink, man, she said coming closer. It was quite dark now. Only the lamp in the car burned piss yellow.

--I know, I said and closed the car door. The light went out. I felt a sharp pain in my mouth that began spreading through my whole skull. With my eyes closed, everything was as bright as the Fourth of July.

--I needed that, I said, trying to shrug it off. Though I wasn't sure.

She went around the car and got in, but the smell drove her away.

--Your car stinks, she said, leaning her butt against the hood.

--It's the people who ride in it.

--Let's go home.

--Let's.

--Let's.

--Let's. She put her arms around me. But I could not reciprocate. The ring was on my finger. My hands were covered in shit. I stood there like the tin woodsman, my arms sticking out into the dark air, cold and rusted stuck.

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