Tuesday And Thursday Drives

Welma looked forward to driving home from work with Laura every Tuesday and Thursday. Those were the days Laura closed at 6 p.m., same time as her. It took twenty-two minutes if the bridge was clear and thirty-five minutes if there was traffic. They never minded either way since they stayed three blocks apart.

The routine was simple. Laura got in, dropped her bag at her feet, sighed with relief and pointed at the windshield. “Okay. Go,” she would say. Then they would bitch about everything that happened that day. Their boss who drank too much coffee and whose hands shook all the time. The new printer. The man in accounting who microwaved fish.

Welma would add her own list and Laura would groan in the right places. By the time they reached Laura's place, both of them felt lighter as though they had set down something heavy.

Neither of them ever called it friendship. It was just work, Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Two months later, Laura got a new job in another city with a raise. Welma hugged her and said all the right things. She meant them too but just felt a small, cold stone drop into her stomach.

On Laura's last Thursday, they walked out of the office to the car park together. The sky was gray and the parking lot smelled like rain. Laura got in, dropped her bag at her feet, sighed with relief, pointing at the windshield. “Okay. Go.”

Welma shook her head, chuckling as she pulled out of the lot. Then she opened her mouth to say something and nothing came out.

They drove past the gas station and the dentist's office with the giant plastic tooth. Welma waited for their usual talk to start up but neither of them was willing to speak. It was strange.

Laura was leaving and everything that had annoyed them for three years suddenly felt small and inconsequential.

“I can't think of anything to say,” Laura whispered and laughed. It felt awkward.

“Me neither. This is the worst.”

And of course, the bridge was clear, Welma thought. The one day she wanted the traffic, the one day she would have given anything for thirty-five minutes or even an hour, the road was open and smooth and the river flashed clean and clear below them.

She slowed down. Laura noticed and whispered, “You know what I'll miss?”

“Tell me.”

“Not the job. The job is whatever. I'll miss having somewhere to put it all. Like where do I bitch now and who's going to listen to that?”

“Your new co-workers.”

Laura shook her head. “Nah. They'll think I'm negative or something.”

“You are negative.”

“Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. With you.”

The silence returned but Welma kept her eyes on the road because it was easier that way. The wipers squeaked once across a dry windshield and she realised she had turned them on without knowing why. She turned them off.

“Call me,” she said. “When something goes wrong right when it happens, okay?” Laura nodded, unable to speak. “I'll be a worse listener but I'll be here.”

“Certainly. Will do.”

They pulled up outside Laura's apartment building and it was exactly twenty-two minutes. Neither of them moved while the engine hummed. A man walked by with his golden retriever on a leash and they both watched him go.

“Okay,” Laura said suddenly. She picked up her bag. “I guess that's it.”

“Wait,” Welma said, reaching over to squeeze Laura's hand. It was quick and awkward, the way you do when you aren't used to it.

When Laura finally got out and the door shut, Welma sat there a long time with the engine running. Then she pulled away from the curb and drove home.

The whole way home, she kept talking out loud to the empty seat. She told it everything that happened at work that day.

I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "bitch”.

Thank you for visiting my blog.

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