Sometimes she feared she loved too fiercely.

The feeling would rush up around her, crash over her, overwhelm her.  I cannot love this much. 

And so it was on the clear autumn morning that she drove away from the house and to work.
I cannot love this much. 

And so it was as she kept driving past the office, past the coffee shop, past the grocery, past each of her usual places.
I cannot love this much.

The words sounded a refrain, over and over.  She found herself muttering them, felt them as a dull ache in her body, a tightening in her chest.

And so she kept driving.  Moving. 

She did the thing she'd often imagined, thought she never could do: she drove away from everything.  She just left.  She didn't call.  She didn't plan.  She left with just the things for the day: purse, phone, wallet, nothing more.  

It wasn't a conscious choice, driving away.  It was something else--a drift.  She simply didn't turn into the parking lot, park the car, walk into the office and to her desk.  She just felt the overwhelming crush of loving and thought I cannot love this much and she realized that if she could not love this much she would have to just go, break it off now, get away--to run.  To not love at all.  And so she felt that crush and could not turn the steering wheel one way or the other.  She just kept going straight, following the road right past everything she saw every day.

Pockets of the city slipped by her.  She was headed toward downtown, slowing with the increased traffic, and she saw only the cars in front of and behind her.  At a red light, she nearly slid right through the intersection with all the cars in front of her.  As she slammed the brakes, she jolted from the drifting sensation and looked around her.  I've never been here before, she realized.  I've lived here ten years and I've never driven through this intersection.  The thought stirred a pinch of attention in her, just the littlest bit of excitement.  I've seen something new already.

The light changed and she kept going.

She followed the road through downtown, through the next batch of suburbs, past the city limits, until she was driving through wide fields and rolling hills.  

She kept going.

Eventually, the orange fuel light glared in front of me for longer than was probably safe and I pulled into the next gas station I saw.  I was hours from my city and at the edge of another.  The throbbing echo in my mind--that refrain--was finally fading.  A blankness replaced it and only simple, practical needs were drifting through my thoughts.  Gas in the car.  A sudden awareness of how hungry I was.  A mild headache and serious need for coffee.  I'd planned to grab coffee and a bagel at the cafe next to my office, like I did every morning.  Every morning.  The routine, the usual--I was trying to forget all that and yet here I was, thinking of it.

I walked into the convenience store and made my way to the coffee machine.  A wealth of options faced me: regular, decaf, hazelnut, cappuccino, cream, no cream.  

"Too many choices, aren't there?" a woman said as she approached the machine with her refillable mug in hand. "I try a different one each time I'm here.  Hazelnut's the best so far."

I nodded and filled my cup with my favorite instead, a frothy french vanilla that was probably full of sugar and very little vanilla.  

"Ah, vanilla.  That's always a safe bet," the woman said.  I smiled and nodded again.  She turned her head back to the machine and began filling her cup.  "Of course, it's not all that adventurous.  But then, not much here is," she said, almost to herself, much more softly than all she'd said before.

I took my full cup to the register, where I grabbed a handful of overpriced granola bars and a pack of gum.  The cashier, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, said nothing save the total.  As she handed me my change and receipt, I heard the coffee-machine woman behind me.

"Try the hazelnut next time," she said.

"I might," I answered and walked out the door.

It's not all that adventurous. There it was: a new refrain.  It had a partner: I might.

This was step one: drive.  Go.  Be brave within this limited scope--a single state highway that meandered through a handful of cities.  I sipped my coffee and unwrapped a granola bar.  The blankness ahead of my was starting to become clear: I had just left.  I had enough time to drive back and just call in sick.  To go into work tomorrow as if nothing had happened.  

The bright blue sky I'd left town under turned pink and gold and orange at the horizon line behind me.  The moon was ahead, rich, bright, full--a perfect harvest moon.  It wasn't all dark yet but it would be soon and I decided I needed a place to sleep.  I was at the edge of a Chicago suburb and I knew if I drove in further, I couldn't afford any place that would be safe enough for a girl on her own.  On her own--that was a new thought.  I had only myself to think of.

I pulled into the first small hotel I saw with a recognizable name--one I knew would be safe and inexpensive.  

{FILL IN LATER}

The room was too cold when I walked in.  I don't think any heat was coming from the unit below the window.  I dropped my purse and keys on the desk near the door and went to the window.  The blinds were wide open and so I closed it, wanting a little privacy.  The wide-open road was enough visibility for one day; now, I needed to be in an enclosed space.  I turned the dial on the heater and felt an instant rush of warm air.  I held my hands over the warmth and closed my eyes.

With a full night ahead of me, alone, without all the usual things--computers, the TV, a visit from Martin or from my neighbor's little kids--the blankness became less inviting and, for the first time, frightening.  I'd never run away before.  Even when I was a kid and fought with my parents or my brother, I'd never run away or planned it or even considered it.  I'm not even sure how or why I did it this morning or why I drove all day.  Was there one thing that did it?  What was the moment, the shift, the straw, the domino?  What sent me past the office and cafe and everything else I knew?

I opened my eyes.  If you asked me why I'd left, I wouldn't be able to tell you.  Weeks would probably pass before I found the answer within myself.  For now, I decided I would just look within, figure out what I needed, decide where I wanted to go.

Of course, practical matters remained.  I called work and left a voicemail with my resignation and a promise of a written notice within the week.  I needed a toothbrush and pajamas and a half dozen other items and I had no idea where I could find any of those things, so I pulled my coat back on, slid my wallet in the inside pocket, and took my keys in hand and went down to the lobby.

When I got there, a older man had replaced the young woman who'd checked me in.  He was tall, heavyset, and nearly bald.  He smiled at me as I approached the desk.  "Can I help you, young lady?"

"I just need to go buy a few things.  Toothbrush, that sort of thing.  I've never been in this area before--where should I go?"

He directed me to a big box store down the street and around a corner.  I went out to my car, turned the heat up as far as it could go, and followed the receptionist's directions.  The light ahead was red.  As I sat at the light with my turn signal on, ready to turn left as soon as the light changed, I realized this was my first turn off the road I'd just spent the day on.  Somehow, it felt significant.  My path away was no longer a single winding line, but rather featured a turn and a loop around.  

I walked into the store, grabbed a cart, and began wandering the aisles.  In a moment of giddiness, I skipped a few steps realizing that my time was suddenly all my own to use, to decide how to parcel out.  And I didn't have to think about anyone else as I chose things I loved and dropped them in my cart.  Twizzlers, chocolate, salt and vinegar chips.  Hard cider, diet Coke, bottled water.  Breakfast cereal.  Starburst.  

When I was done finding foods to rot my teeth, I crossed the store to the pharmacy section for a toothbrush and toothpaste, floss, my favorite face wash.  I realized the wealth of items I used daily as I browsed the shelves and picked up makeup and shampoo and conditioner and a cosmetic bag.  Buying new items, duplicates of things I had in the bathroom at my apartment, felt wasteful and yet indulgent.  I dropped everything in my cart and circled around the back of the store toward clothing.  On the way, I passed books.  A bestseller I'd meant to read for months was on the endcap; I picked it up and placed it in my cart.  A few audiobooks were further down the aisle, and I found a mystery I'd meant to read.  It went in my cart.  Around the corner of the aisle was the start of the music and electronics section.  I snatched up a car charger for my phone and a cable to connect the phone to my car speakers.  The long days ahead started to fill with little things as I collected everything.

When I finally made my way out of the books and electronics, I reached the clothing.  My credit card was already groaning in my wallet, I was sure--I didn't need to worry about how much I was spending, but it was still more than I usually spent, more than my usual run of transactions.  So I decided to keep it simple and try for a basic capsule wardrobe that could last a few days.  As I filled my cart with black leggings, a second pair of skinny jeans that I had at home, tunic tops and gray cardigan, pajama pants and a soft long-sleeve tee, I realized that I had no idea how long I would be gone.  My bank account would keep me afloat for months if I needed it; I could start saving toward a house again later.  My rent was paid automatically and so were all my other bills.  I'd turned the heat low in my apartment and I didn't have any pets and the worst thing that could await me in my little one-bedroom was the just-run dishwasher.  

There wasn't anything to draw me back.  There wasn't anything that required my return.  Even my job, now, would go on without me.  The part-time clerk knew how to do my entire job and wanted full-time hours anyway.  Everyone and everything, I realized, would be fine without me.  I wasn't sure if that was a relief or frustrating.  As I'd driven away that morning, I'd fled because I felt overwhelmed by love, too needed, too necessary; now, I felt superfluous.

I wouldn't go back for weeks.  I picked up a few more clothes, slippers, a blue knit dress, and a pair of comfy black flats.  I swung around to the middle of the store for a suitcase but picked up a hiking backpack instead.  This was definitely time for an adventure, I thought.  The demands are behind me.  I'm just going to move.

A bored-looking twenty-something guy was working the register alone.  He never looked up from the scanner, but talked anyway.  "Going on a trip?" he said in a monotone.

"Something like that," I answered.

"Nice backpack," he replied.  "It gets good reviews.  Great for going anywhere but here."

"That's the idea."

He read me the total and offered to put everything inside the backpack for me instead of into plastic bags.  I took him up on the offer and swiped my credit card as he filled the bag. 

"Have a good adventure," he said as I walked away.

"Thanks.  Have a good night," I said, then hoisted the backpack over both shoulders and walked out the door.  My shoulders would probably ache if I carried this thing all day, I realized, but I didn't care that much.  

When I'd driven to the store from the hotel, I'd thought about the drive back to the hotel.  Would I actually go where I intended this time?  Or would I just erase the day's journey and head back once I'd turned around?  And yet I realized that turns forward and back in this adventure were going to be unavoidable.  I couldn't go always forward, always ahead.  I needed places to land.  

And in the store, I'd realized that I didn't have to go back.

I truly didn't have to.

So I drove back to the hotel and went up to my room.  The building was half empty, at least, and so the halls and my room were silent.  And even though I'd left to get away from noise and structure and rigidity, the silence didn't yet feel freeing.  

I turned on the TV and messed with the settings until I found a sleep timer.  A cable channel promised a marathon of a series I'd never seen.  With the volume on low, just enough to hear it as white noise, I pulled out the pajamas and toothbrush and face wash and got ready to sleep.  By the time I pulled the covers back, laid down, and pulled the blankets to my chin, I was barely awake.  The TV continued in the background, the sitcom characters blundering their way through romance and family and friendships and work, and I fell asleep.

Martin wasn't the first person I fell in love with.  I fell in love with a few boys when I was in middle school and high school and in college.  I dated a few of them and nursed unrequited crushes on the others.

Martin was, however, the first man I fell in love with.  

We met in the spring of last year, close to a year ago.  He came into our office for his college transcript to take to a job interview.  We got to talking and discovered we had a half dozen mutual friends.  We kept talking even after I'd printed the transcript and stamped it with the registrar's signature and slipped it into an envelope and sealed it.  He looked at the clock on the wall suddenly and realized he had to leave for that job interview.  I wished him luck.  He turned to leave, then whirled back around.

"We should have coffee," he said.  "Next week.  Wednesday.  At the cafe next door.  Five o'clock okay?"

All I managed was a nod.