After graduation, you flew from the U.S. to Europe on a one-way ticket to join friends on a motorcycle trip from Germany to Morocco. Two thousand miles. Three BMW motorcycles. Four countries. Five people, whose past and current histories with each other proved too complicated for camping and close quarters.
• • •
What you remember. Sun glinting on vineyards and green fields in the south of France. The amazing warmth and lightness of the wind on all sides as you gripped the motorcycle with your legs, arms around his waist, leaning into his body on the curves. The fragrance of thyme and lavender. The heady sense of freedom.
• • •
Three men, two women. Three Germans, two Americans. All twenty-something. Two had been childhood sweethearts, and had broken up. Two would marry in Germany, move to the U.S., and break up. Two would move to the U.S., marry, and break up. Two were carrying on a clandestine affair during the trip. The mathematical combinations almost too confusing to calculate, like a propositional logic word problem on an aptitude test.
• • •
What you remember. The five of you lounging in a field in Provence on a late summer afternoon, motorcycle helmets and golden corn silk and green husks strewn around you. The rosy light as the sun sank on the horizon. The taste of the pale yellow corn, raw and sweet, and the red wine you swigged out of a bottle, sour like vinegar.
• • •
You were American, traveling with your German boyfriend. The other three were traveling solo, but one of the Germans was having an affair with your boyfriend, which you didn’t discover until you were camping in the Pyrenees, when she objected to him sharing a sleeping bag with you. All of the hints she’d been dropping clicked into place. You were stunned. So many years later, you can’t remember exactly what he said when you confronted him. What she said. What you said back. Or maybe you’ve chosen to forget.
• • •
What you remember about northern Spain. How icy cold and clear the rushing stream was when you went down to the swimming hole alone the next morning. How immense the tumbled boulders were in the ravine. A yellow butterfly that fluttered gracefully above you and landed on your wet hair.
• • •
Did you decide that you’d return north on your own while the other four continued south, or did he decide, or did you all decide? He drove you back to the Spanish-French border so you could hitch a ride to Germany. You can’t remember how many miles you traveled to get there, only that the two of you stayed overnight in a hotel. He became feverish from an abscessed tooth, and you found a doctor for him.
• • •
What you remember about that night. Spooning soup into his mouth. The heat of his forehead under your hand as you smoothed back his hair. The tenderness of your lovemaking, despite his betrayal. How dim the room was.
• • •
A young German couple headed for Hanover agreed to take you to Göttingen, and your boyfriend left to join the others in Spain. The trip north must have been close to a thousand miles. There was no speed limit on the autobahn, so you can’t guess how many hours you drove. They had a fast car. An Audi. You don’t remember any stops.
• • •
What you remember about the long ride. The backs of their heads. Your view between the bucket seats: their hands darting to the radio dials, his, then hers, his, then hers, as they bickered over what station to play. How you sobbed quietly in the back seat, eyes swollen, tears sliding down your face.
• • •
He returned to you in Germany a month later, bearing an armful of blankets from Morocco, a handful of silver rings and bracelets, a bouquet of apologies and promises. You’ve forgotten the precise arithmetic: how many years of happiness before you married, how many years of marriage before the next infidelity, how many apologies and promises before the divorce. You’ve lost the jewelry. You still have two wool blankets from Morocco, white and brown and charcoal striped, and very scratchy.
Jacqueline Doyle lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her award-winning flash fiction chapbook The Missing Girl was published by Black Lawrence Press. She has recent creative nonfiction in The Gettysburg Review and New Ohio Review, and recent flash in New Flash Fiction Review, Post Road, Wigleaf, and Juked. Her work has earned six Pushcart nominations, two Finalist listings in Best Small Fictions, and four Notable Essay citations in Best American Essays. Find her online at jacquelinedoyle.com and on twitter @doylejacq.
© 2019 Jacqueline Doyle. Published by LITTLE FICTION | BIG TRUTHS, August 2019.
Images from The Noun Project (credits: jayati bandyopadhyay).
THE 2019 FLASH NONFICTION ISSUE:
