Road Trip

The sweetness of the corn mixes with musty soybeans and sticks to my skin. One-stop towns decorate the open fields with marquee signs announcing births, engagements, and six piece chicken buckets for $4.99. Every town is my home.

"Do you want that?" Heath nods.

I turn the Billy Idol ‘Rebel Yell’ cassette over in my hand and think what a silly question. We haven’t had a cassette player in months. I’d have to stash it in the saddle bags for later. "That’s okay." I drop the cassette into the bin.

The lady behind the counter smiles at him, at his thoughtfulness. "Ya’ll have a good night," she calls out.

"Thanks. You do the same," Heath waves before guiding me out the door by my waist, inches away from the plastic case tucked into the band of my jeans.

The bugs are violent outside of town, stinging my cheeks, but the darkness pushes us forward. I bury my head into Heath’s back, hunched over, the corner of the cassette case jabbing my belly. Left hand on my thigh, shoulders spread broad, he windshields for me.

He steers the bike onto a dirt path. I dismount and follow him a ways off the road. My legs, tired from the long ride, tremble as my boots shuffle over the rutted ground.

The moon spots us from straight above. There’s no point in setting up the tent. Farmers rise early. The first whir of pickups passing and Heath will wake. I climb into the sleeping bag with him, resting my head on the chest that had become my pillow. The scent of oil and wind is intoxicating.

Lying together, the sleeping bag zipped tight, I ask the dreaded question, "Where are we going tomorrow?" My fingers play with the flesh hanging over his belt. At least he isn’t drinking as much.

"I don’t know. Keep heading south for a while. D.T. has a place for us in Florida. He has a buddy who owns a bike shop. I need to find some work. Our funds are getting low."

"I could always dance somewhere. Just for one night." Just saying those words coats the back of my tongue with bile.

"I told you….never again. And I mean it." He sucks in his gut. The flesh disappears beneath my fingers. "Why do you even bring that up?" His eyes slit and he drops his arm to the ground which was as far away as he could get in the confines of the flannel wrap.

I fumble for the zipper on his blue jeans, letting the crickets speak for me. Their incessant, involuntary cries for companionship fill my ears and I know there isn’t any other language I know how to speak.