Morning
He woke up somewhere south of Calgary, coming slowly awake as his eyes focused on the Malibu’s shadow stretched 100 feet long, 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 his 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. He shifted, felt his forehead, sat a little straighter.
She pushed the headphones off.
“Glad you decided to join me.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Passed out, more like. 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 call somebody at the shop.”
She looked at him, the put the headphones back on and turned up the sound, but 10 miles later she pulled off at a Husky Truck Stop, bumping 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 sa 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 likely aren’t the brightest people in Melfort - though that wouldn’t be saying much - but I’m pretty sure they know you aren’t there. So what would you tell them?”
“I don’t know, I told you. Sorry, suppose, I left them in the lurch.”
“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 to eat 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. . .”
“Well, pick now. You’re going to let people know, or you’re going to do things, and only one of them involves me.”
He paused, but just for a second, but maybe one second can be too long.
“Let’s have some breakfast and get going. Lousiana’s not getting any closer.”
The air almost touched you, 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, 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.
She caught that, looked at him again, then made a quiet joke about the funeral and her inheritance turning out to be the car and him. The coffee was the best part of breakfast, not good coffee but still the best part.
She left him to wait for the bill, went to the bathroom, and 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.
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. He shifted, felt his forehead, sat a little straighter.
She pushed the headphones off.
“Glad you decided to join me.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Passed out, more like. 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 call somebody at the shop.”
She looked at him, the put the headphones back on and turned up the sound, but 10 miles later she pulled off at a Husky Truck Stop, bumping 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 sa 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 likely aren’t the brightest people in Melfort - though that wouldn’t be saying much - but I’m pretty sure they know you aren’t there. So what would you tell them?”
“I don’t know, I told you. Sorry, suppose, I left them in the lurch.”
“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 to eat 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. . .”
“Well, pick now. You’re going to let people know, or you’re going to do things, and only one of them involves me.”
He paused, but just for a second, but maybe one second can be too long.
“Let’s have some breakfast and get going. Lousiana’s not getting any closer.”
The air almost touched you, 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, 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.
She caught that, looked at him again, then made a quiet joke about the funeral and her inheritance turning out to be the car and him. The coffee was the best part of breakfast, not good coffee but still the best part.
She left him to wait for the bill, went to the bathroom, and 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.
posted by paul at
7:26 PM
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