the willing and the accomplice: tunnels

the accomplice had a sense of excitement himself. he had always enjoyed
driving through tunnels, thinking of the men who had laid the asphalt

some morning at three a.m., wearing their hard hats, making the world
bigger. as a passenger, the lights in the tunnel look as if they were one

running consistency, firm enough to catch and use to line the sidewalks
as a way to remember the steps home. the near certainty that something

different awaited at the other end, even if only geographically, filled
the accomplice with such pleasure that he felt foolish for not having realized

that many things have already been supplied, he let the wind hit his face
as he put the window down as a way to associate the realization. driving

in cars with the windows down and cigarettes lit had become the accomplice’s
picture of youth and for the fourth saturday in a row, he was getting to be a part

of it. it wasn’t so much that he particularly enjoyed it, but at least he
was getting to watch things as they happened instead of spending his evenings

falling in and out of sleep with the lights on and the tv going, letting
the sound of rerun reality shows guide the musing of his subconscious.

the accomplice had arranged this meeting with the willing as an offering.

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