in the town I’d moved to a month before.
The pill wasn’t enough. I knew it wouldn’t be because it never is when I drive, but I still hope, every time, thinking that maybe I’ll have calibrated everything well enough for the medicine to obviate the Coke Zero or iced coffee I usually drink on long drives, their caffeinated push augmented by the sleep-disabling need to pee. Inevitably, I overdo the caffeination, but it doesn’t become apparent until I arrive and find myself shaking and sweaty as I unpack the car with the manic enthusiasm of someone looking for a misplaced wallet in her own house, tearing through drawers and moving every object because movement feels like a solution.
When we got to Minneapolis, I raced to get everything out of the car and into the place we were staying, the house of my friend’s friends, who were out of town. As my friend punched the code into the digital front door lock, I wondered if I should ask for it, driven by the need to plan and the tendency to always expect the worst. The keys depressed and popped out one by one, each depression triggering the spring-out of the last button. Inside, trying to make my avoidance of the house’s two cats seem like I was restless, not afraid of cats, I worried that I’d taken the pill too early in the day, that it wouldn’t last through the concert, despite the caffeine rushing me unasleep as if through subtraction.
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