Driving the Cloverleaf by Doug Bond

Spinning through the ice patch he straightens out, turns left twice, and takes Bessemer northwest three miles to the broad swale where the engineers had cut the state highways’ intersection into four perfect bulbed ellipses. She knows he’s leaving in the morning, but asks anyway. “Flight leaves 8 am. If there’s no weather delay I’ll get home before dark. Service is on Friday.” “That’s a long trip.” She hesitates and then says, “So you didn’t even know the guy?” “Nope, didn’t know him at all.” “Your brother’s friend, right?” “Yeah….Well, I guess they weren’t just friends.” “Oh.” She tries to sound surprised, “I really didn’t know.” “Yeah, well neither did my parents. It’s pretty fucked up back there right now!” Quiet settles in, only the sound of the turn signal and wiper blades, as they weave circles in and around the highway exchange. “So why’d you come with me anyway you worried I’m all freaked out or something?” “Didn’t want you to miss a turn.” The snow starts coming down heavier but it is late and traffic is light. He heads up the northbound ramp yet another time, picks up speed a bit as they loop up again to the highway merge. Everything is banked just right with the entrances and exits sweeping wide and away from where they’ve just been. He’s beginning to feel a little dizzy, almost nervous looking out the window, how in the dark and blowing snow it’s almost impossible to see one side from the other.

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