Lost in the Rye

"Where do you wanna go?" “Somewhere close by,” I say, trying to sound appropriately detached, though I’m not sure for whom. We ride off, and I let the road decide. I sat in the backseat often enough that the city began to blur with the wind. I wanted to lean in, I didn't. Then there were no more rides. I never went back to any of those places. They remained lodged in memory: fog, cold air, a field I once despised, made comforting by the company I kept there. My winter woods I would never return to.  One particularly shitty day I tried to find them again. I walked in the general direction, music on, nobody tracking me, nobody waiting. Just a walk with the smallest chance of recognition. I reached a crossroads and and was hit with the sudden fragrance of pala—intoxicating, almost dizzying. I looked around. No pala trees, only a mango tree in full bloom. I was nowhere near the bridge, only a scattering of flats and an ordinary road.  Still, for a moment, the place returned. ...