Driving down the freeway
of love, it looked like we
were driving up to me. But
I didn't want to argue. She
wanted to make a restroom stop.
Nature was calling and would
continue to call until we stopped
somewhere. I didn't want to get
in the way of nature, so we stopped
at a gas station. She said the restroom
was too dirty to use. I said the restroom
wasn't for scenery—we'd have the mountains
up ahead for that. But she continued
to bitch about the restroom until she
made me feel responsible. We never
got back on that freeway.
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Issue 57
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Editor's Note
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Poetry
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Fiction