Text: Fatigue
He curses. I wake. Bright lights from an approaching vehicle scratch my eyes. I close them again. “Idiot,” he says and flashes his high beam at the driver, “he could have killed us!”
I open my eyes a slit and find him gouging his own with his fingertips. The road we are traveling is long and unlit with only fleeting bursts of light as we skim though rural communities. It’s a road that we don’t travel often and one that we usually avoid at night. I sit up and cross my legs on the seat. I must talk to him if he is to stay awake.
I was chatting to this woman the other day, her son is an apprentice builder. He sliced the tendons in his hand and had to go to the city for treatment. Now she drives him there every week. She hates the city. The doctor says if they continue the treatment her son will eventually regain full movement.
It worked. He’s sitting upright in his seat, his eyes are pinned wide. I only had to mention the words sliced and tendons in the one sentence. The conversation sidles from topic to topic. An impromptu song ensues and we even manage a laugh. The soft drum of child snore echoes from the back seat. I look at my little family, content that my husband has beaten his fatigue.
An approaching vehicle flashes its high beam. “Idiot,” I say as I lift my hand to shield my eyes. My husband curses quietly and flicks his lights to low. He knows that he could have killed them.
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