She opened the chat with “What’s your Waterview Tunnel song?”
As a beginning to a Tinder conversation, the question had the energy of someone
whose bio says
Fuck small talk. I want big talk.
Fuck what you do for a living.
I want to know how you’re loving yourself and how you’re growing
as a person
even though her bio didn’t.
I didn’t know I was supposed to have a
Waterview Tunnel song. To be fair,
this question is a burden I brought upon myself
by mentioning in my bio that I like singing in the car.
It’s something to say. You have to say something.
Surely I have made more impact on the absurdist aeon of my
thirty-three years than to have nothing to say about myself in my bio.
my Waterview Tunnel song is my heart beating so fast
I can no longer hear the world rushing in my ears
my Waterview Tunnel song is quick breathing just before I have a panic attack
my Waterview Tunnel song is my car and me conspiring against my ex-husband
to make him break the passenger side window
the first time we drove through it to meet
my most devastating sister at the airport
my Waterview Tunnel song is the sound of AM radio when it’s underground
my Waterview Tunnel song is white noise turned all the way up
my Waterview Tunnel song is me screaming continuously from one end to the other
my Waterview Tunnel song is ‘Who wants to live forever’ slowed down so that it’s
seventeen minutes long
my Waterview Tunnel song is their slow breathing when they’ve fallen asleep
and I haven’t yet
But you can’t say that on Tinder.
My Waterview Tunnel song is the sound of my head falling back on a pillow,
lengthened enough to fill the
interminable gasp of
deluge zone after deluge zone.
Featured photo by Matt L. via Greater Auckland.
