Friday, April 9, 2010

Five Different People

Two hundred ninety-two miles north, we cooled ourselves in the rattle of the air conditioning unit, and I smiled at the smell of clean sheets and the feel of over starched towels.

I sat on the edge of the bed, drying my ears out with a corner of the towel. She flopped happily onto the comforter and turned the television on and we stayed in bed until the sun was well up, but I couldn't tell you what the programming was.


Pulling into the motel, two hundred ninety-two miles north east, windows down, glass bottles of tea sweating in the heat, this motel: so far off the interstate exit we could only hear the crickets, and, somewhere hidden, tiny wind chimes.

Her hand on mine, mine on the gear shift, she leaned in, oceanic hair still smelling like the ocean, and kissed my cheek. "Love you." she said.


Two hundred ninety-two miles north, eighty miles an hour, she said, "Let's stop here for the night."

"What? There's nothing here!"

"We'll find something, just come on, eh? It'll be fun!"

"Fun, huh?" I quipped, but with a grin. At the stop light, "Crickets sure are loud, aren't they? Don't think I've ever heard such loudness before."

And she replied, "My grandma's place used to get chicadas pretty bad in the summers, this isn't so bad."