Their quarrel sent them reeling from the house. 

Anything, just get on the road and get away. 

Driven out, they drove. . . miles into countryside, 

confined and bickering, then cold, polite; 

she read a book, or looked out at hillside pastures; 

once, faraway life came close, and they stopped 

in mist for muddy, slow cows at a crossing, 

then, tilted, shuddering, a tractor came across; 

coldly silent other hours of trees after trees 

interspersed with straggling villages--then hot; 

her voice pulsing, tempestuous, against the dash, 

buffeted, blew up; the slammed her hand down, hard.

"You let it happen--you know you did. 

And you make me the bad one--all the time! 

I won't stand for it another second." And then, 

irrationally, "Look at me, I'm talking to you!" 

What half-faced her was mulish, scolded sullenness

--who gripped the wheel and to scare her drove faster, 

scaring himself; he felt out of control, dangerous. 

Downhill, the road darkened, dropped out of sight. 

At the bottom, racing toward them, three lights, 

and trees. . . . Remember this, remember this, 

she thought, the last thing I will ever see. 

Diner, tavern, café, whatever it was.

The car spun suddenly into the parking lot.

She grabbed at the key, threw it out. Shaken, they sat

--while their momentum went on raging down the road. 

They knew they might have been killed--by each other, 

had someone been up to just one more dare.