{Writing Prompt} One Green Shoe

The ride from Indiana was solemn. It was dusk and Tom and I both were tired after a full day of forced family fun. Tatum was in the back, saddled into her car seat for the drive, berry sauce splotched across her once white top.

I tried to inventory the laundry room at home, searching for the bleach. I couldn't remember if we had any left, so we'd have to stop on the way home.

We listened to a lullaby cd to coax Tatum into napping. She hadn't napped all day and her mood was shifting into over-tired monster child.

Tom turned on talk radio and chewed gum as I dozed off and on. I could tell something was on his mind when he chewed gum, slowly like cud, but I wanted just a little more peace before jumping into it. Whatever it was.

"Remember making this drive when we were newly married? How there were no silences? We'd talk, laugh, sing to blaring music all four hours?"

"Yep," was all he said.

"Sometimes I miss that."

"Yep," he said, again.

I reached over to touch his thinning hair, smoothing it and tickling his ear along the way. It used to make him flinch. Not any more.

"How come you're not ticklish anymore?"

He pulled off the interstate. I bought two fountain sodas and pork rinds while Tom pumped gas. The town of Crawford was halfway and always had the cheapest gas. I'm not sure how the pork rinds became part of the tradition, but they had. I never thought I'd like them ... I only ate them on the way home from Indiana. It was our thing.

"No thanks," Tom said as I held the opened bag up for him to partake.

"Suit yourself - more for me."

Later I gestured again, and he declined. As I folded the top of the bag over to keep the remaining pork rinds fresh (as if they need to be fresh), I dipped my toes in farther ... though I wasn't sure I really wanted to know.

Tom didn't answer. He changed radio stations and took a sip of his soda.

I tried to tickle him in the ribs. No response.

Tatum woke up. I gave her a pork rind. She mostly chewed one corner. It became more of a toy than a snack. Kind of like rawhide for dogs. Tom vocalized his opposition to this choice of snack. I gave her another, which she promptly smashed into bits that fell into cracks in the car seat and would eventually become fossilized.

She fell back asleep, drool running down her face. I nodded off again as well. I'd mastered the not-drooling in the car, but not the head bobbing.

Before I knew it, we were on the windy, hilly road that lead to our subdivision. I stretched my arms, my legs and looked over at Tom. He was still chewing gum. He held up the pack of gum to offer me a piece.

"No thanks," I said. He liked red hot cinnamon gum. Too strong for my tastes.

Once we were in the garage I opened the back door to retrieve Tatum and found that she was only wearing one shoe; one green shoe must be back in IN.