The Romance of the Evening

I remember the night I fell in love with the evening. I was driving on a mountain road, a few moments after dusk: The trees' shadows were merging with the background of the sky, the cool air was a whisper in my ear. I did not abandon myself uncontrollably, I did not lose sight of the road. Rather the evening surrounded me the way a footprint surrounds a foot, the way a star is surrounded by empty space. I lost the notion of preference: I did not care for darkness over light, I could not tell my left hand from my right. Later I drove through the forrest knocking down small trees; rabbits were caught frozen in my headlights, the car's engine gave off the smell of fear: fear released, fear repulsed, fear returning. I got out of the car in a small clearing and turned off the lights. The evening made no demands, I did not have to remove my clothes, there were no promises made or broken. I did not have to give up my lovers, nor did the idea of fidelity even occur to me: No matter how many times I left the evening it would always come back to me, by choice or otherwise.


-Ira Sadoff