Morning

He woke up somewhere south of Calgary, looked down and realized he was still dressed for the funeral. He watched the Malibu’s shadow stretched 100 feet long by the morning sun, bouncing off golden chunks of dead grass and patches of snow. His neck hurt, his forehead was cold from being pressed against the window, his white shirt was twisted around shoulders.
She was driving with her right wrist crooked over the top of the steering wheel, the other hand tapping her thigh, the noise from the Walkman headphones a small, tinny echo. The sun behind her lit the inside of her mother’s car, and when he moved he could see dust rise from the seats and smell the stale cigarette smoke. He shifted, felt his forehead, sat a little straighter.
She pushed the headphones off, turned and smiled. He realized he didn’t know her age, and couldn’t guess.
“Glad you decided to join me.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Passed out, you mean. You were gone before we hit the Alberta border.”
He paused, looked around, saw mountain smudged grey in the distance, a dog or coyote running slowly along a ridge above a house.
“I should really call somebody at the shop.”
She looked at him, then put the headphones back on and turned up the sound. But 10 miles later she pulled off at a Husky Truck Stop, bumping the car hard and fast off the shoulder and running up beside the cafe, the sun already higher.
“Wait a minute,” she said, when he started to get out. “Maybe we should say goodbye here.”
“What do you mean.”
“Call somebody at the shop? And tell them what?”
“I don’t know, just that I’m not there.”
“They aren’t the brightest people in Biggar - though that’s not saying much - but I’m pretty sure they know you aren’t there. So what would you tell them?”
“I don’t know. Sorry, I guess. They thought I’d be in at work today, and now we’re heading for Los Angeles. They’ll be a little surprised.”
“Look bucko, my father’s going to wake up with a house full of dirty dishes, a fridge full of casseroles he doesn’t want and a low-grade hangover, and he’s going to find me gone with the dearly departed’s car.”
“I just want to let them. . .” But she stopped him, leaning back, one hand on the wheel.
“I’m 32. I’ve learned exactly six things so far, and one is about decision time, and it’s here for you. You can talk and let people know, or you can do things. Only one choice includes me. And you’ll be sorry if you choose wrong.”
He paused, about to point out he’d known her for 21 hours and had left friends, apartment and job at her father’s car dealership. He paused just for a second, but maybe one second can be too long.
“Let’s have some breakfast and get going,” he said. “California’s not getting any closer.”
The air almost touched him, it was so clean, and the cold felt good in the few steps to the restaurant. He almost touched her, but they were in that strange time, lovers still too new to be familiar.
They ordered huge breakfasts, eggs, ham, potatoes, laughed at the truckers, her laugh too loud, until a large, greasy driver in an International cap asked if there was a problem and she had to claim he reminded her of her uncle . He held his breath, not wanting to fight a man 60 pounds heavier and twice as mean.
She caught that, looked at him again.
“You know,” she said, “I come back for a funeral and don’t even wait to see if there’s an inheritance - just grab you and a 12-year-old car. My mother would probably like that.”
The coffee was the second best part of breakfast, not good coffee but still good. The best part was when she reached out and touched his shoulder.
She left him to wait for the bill and went to the bathroom. He knew right away she wouldn’t be back, but he waited for 15 minutes anyway and never did look at where the car used to be.