We were six miles from
Corpus Christi, belting down the dirty
coast road. The towering
thunderheads were rolling out into the
Gulf, purple giants against the orange sky. The dust was
scouring what was left of the flaking green paint off the
Galaxie. She looked me straight in the
eye and said "You know we don't matter anymore. Nothing does."
I knew she was
right. It didn't
matter. Nothing did. I stared back at her for a long time, locking our
eyes up. The road
burned past while we
twined our gazes up together,
twist-ties on all the
garbage we had seen over the years. The
black book she stole from her
Daddy rolled across the backseat when we pulled the
U turn. Tired tires howled with blacktop
passion.
When you have no place to be, everywhere is where you
belong. She laughed like a little
girl with an
arm full of kittens. I smiled and leaned way back in the passenger
seat.
Let's go baby.