Muscle Memory

She let go of the brakes. The car began to move while her mind drifted in reverse to the past; one that felt so foreign to her that one would think it didn’t even belong to her. She too would think of those times as though they were someone else’s; as though she was just borrowing another person’s story. Except that she was that other person and that, in fact, was her story.

In these moments of unwarranted trance, she couldn’t feel the weather or time of day. Hunger would be replaced with the un-quenching thirst to understand her heart’s place in her mind, as though it were an unwelcome guest to the abode of reason. The two were siblings that hated each other but would display false unity to anyone who dares threaten either. 

Brake.

The car jerked to a sudden stop as a squirrel crossed the road. Her entire being knowing perfectly well what to do, which foot on what pedal, gear down in her hand, her eyes working - disconnected to the absence of her mind. Force of habit. No, muscle memory. And her’s was good. If only the heart would behave true to its identity of a muscle, knowing perfectly well what to do, how to stop.
“I was a day late and a dollar short," he had said.

But her heart knew no time nor its deceptive nature. Reason had failed her from reason. All that remained was the motion of her flesh - her appearance and disappearance, her twisted, knotted existence and her remarkable wretched memory, both muscle and heart. A day late to him, a life lost to her. 

Lifting her foot off the brake yet again, she moved. The squirrel was safe, she was sure of it. Still, her eyes suspiciously moved to the rearview to see the little hazel speck move into the abyss. 

Looking in the passenger seat next to her, she took a quick note of the safety of her groceries and her phone. Her mind skipping to the immediate task of dinner. It had been one of those days that she questioned everything, including the choice of meat for the family. Fish? No, he never liked her fish curry. Her grandma’s recipe. A little tamarind, some curry leaves & coconut. She had perfected the art of the handed down delicacy. His dislike only brought her to recoil further as to how it was loved in her past that is now no longer her’s. Neither the past nor the recipe.

She bought the fish anyway.

He would make a face about it, and she would pretend to be unaware of it and then proceed to quietly make a second curry for him without his noticing, which was easy, as he never noticed anything.  That is what a good wife does, she thought. She was role-playing.

She always did. She had a ton of practice. She practiced with anyone she could feed. She figured she’d be ready. Square off the tiniest details, write down her mother’s recipes, perfect it to perfect impersonation. Figure out the best time in the day to get the housework done. You see, she never planned to be able to afford a maid, let alone two.

Her hand steered gracefully to the left despite always wanting to turn right. Away from it all. From perfection, the maids, the children, the man in the house that always felt a stranger. But she turned left. A perfect turn practiced for 18 years now.

“You took a while. Was there a rush at the grocery store?”  he asked without lifting his head up to see her. He was now used to the sounds that softly and gracefully alarmed him of her presence.

“No, there was some road work, I had to take a detour. Did I keep you waiting?"

“Ah, alright. What are you planning for dinner? I was thinking let’s just go out," he replied.

She was used to it by now. Half her questions going unheard. She didn't mind really. The answers didn't matter either. She turned to face him. The big broad man that never seemed to fit. Taking up all the air of the room, all the space.

“Okay, I’ll drive.”  She replied, determined to let go of the brakes, determined to turn right, and never return. "No, I'll drive. I know a shorter route." he monotonously mumbled at half volume as he rose up from the couch, still in his work clothes.

 
Next Day: The headlines of the local newspaper reported a couple’s sudden death. The car had been accidentally turned into an electric pole. At the site of the incident was a dead squirrel. The man was driving and the wife seated next to him with no seatbelt on. The husband survived.