The engine had already surrendered to silence, ticking like a delinquent as the sun drilled its last crooked ray through the chipped rear window. She sprawled across the back seat, denim legs crossed at the shins, corset-lace blouse half undone by let’s call it circumstance. Unfiltered afternoon glare traced every stubborn seam of her jeans, trenching creases where sweat and adrenaline had been arm-wrestling since noon.
Who was she? Habit calls her Lizzie, but names are the province of court clerks and funeral directors. All I knew, hell, all anybody needed to know, was that the hard plastic buckle of the middle seatbelt pressed into her hip like an impatient question mark: what next? But they evaporated into the interior fog of stale cherry cola, cigarette embers, and a whiff of gasoline we siphoned on the edge of the interstate an hour before the dashboard light screamed famine.
I’d been piloting that rust-black sedan through a corridor of migraines, neon billboards, torrid asphalt, jukebox hallucinations, all the while trying to outrun the twitchy paranoia that always chases borrowed cars and borrowed women. Now the roar had fizzled into a hush so thick you could hear the upholstery plotting. Somewhere outside, cicadas were strangling the last threads of daylight. Inside, a low bass hum emanated from the glovebox radio, which we’d rewired with a bent coat hanger and an almost sincere prayer.
Lizzie’s breath fluttered; it wasn’t a sigh, more a velvet growl that cornered my rib cage. Her fingertips, dusted with road grime and convenience-store sugar, tapped idly on the waistband of her jeans as if decoding a Morse message only the damned could translate.
She smelled of rebellion: cheap jasmine from a truck-stop dispenser colliding with the gun-oil tang of the motel’s malfunctioning ice machine we raided earlier. Somewhere between those notes lurked a darker spice, maybe fear, maybe hunger, perhaps the residue of the pills she’d tongued like sacrament back at mile marker 108.
The taste of that scene still clung to my gums: flat bourbon mixed with cola syrup, lit by the metallic nip of her lip ring when she’d kissed me hard enough to bruise the horizon. I swear the cabin walls shifted when the kiss landed, vinyl steamed, seat springs squealed, and time seemed to hiccup.
We weren’t making love; we were detonating boredom. But even debauchery tires of itself. Eventually, necessity grim, punctual slid in through a cracked window and whispered: rest.
So here she lay, a rag-doll prophetess stretched from door handle to door handle, her torso rising in half-inch increments, tracing a topography of lace and breath. My eyes drifted lower, past the constellation of mud spatters on her knees, to the frayed cuff where denim met gleaming calf skin. A single grain of roadside quartz clung to the fabric, sparkling like a deranged star too stubborn to burn out.
Outside, the sun finally clocked out, leaving us marooned in that gray moment before neon signs remember their electric pulse. The air tasted of scorched rubber and indifferent angels. I fumbled in the pocket of my worn-out leather jacket for a lighter, found it, flipped it open, felt the wheel bite my skin, and struck a flame.
Not for a cigarette; to prove the darkness didn’t own us. The short burst of light painted her features in brutal chiaroscuro: cheekbones sharp as guardrail edges, lips parted in a half-smirk, the curve of her collarbone shimmering like contraband.
“Why are we still breathing?” she murmured, voice hoarse from laughter and exhaust fumes. The question hung there, heavy as a wet bullet. I considered the usual answers: habit, cowardice, cosmic clerical error. Instead, I let the silence answer because sometimes silence is the only honest witness.
A semi roared past, rattling our tin can sanctuary. Its Doppler scream vibrated the seatbacks, massaging my spine with industrial menace. The aftershock made the rearview mirror shudder, reflecting a sliver of her face, my eyelashes trembling, my pupils dilated to the size of moons.
I reached out, pressing my palm to her ankle. The denim was warm, rough, alive. Static crackled between us, the same sly electricity that had chased us through three counties. My touch was a question mark wearing work boots: what if we stay here, between motion and memory, until the universe runs out of gas? She answered by curling her toes, a gesture half invitation, half dare.
In the distance, sirens flirted with the horizon, thin, teasing notes that might’ve been cops or ambulances or stray dogs howling at ghosts. Didn’t matter. We were parked in the blind spot of fate, lacquered in twilight. The world could spin, stall, or implode; we’d already hijacked everything worth stealing: time, breath, and this filthy slice of freedom.
A breeze slipped through a cracked window, stirring the dust motes into a slow, tragic ballet. The air cooled, carrying the after-odor of cut grass and diesel, cleansing the cabin just enough to make room for the next sin. Lizzie exhaled, a whisper that tasted like peppermint rage.
She shifted, the lace of her blouse scraping seat fabric with a sound like matchheads striking. The friction sang to the animal parts of my brain, promising trouble, deliverance, or both.
We didn’t speak again. Words would’ve been counterfeit in that suspended courthouse of desire and exhaustion. Instead, I rolled my head back, let the headrest swallow the ache in my neck, and listened to the heartbeats hidden in the upholstery, hers, mine, the car’s ghost. Somewhere among that triangulated rhythm, I heard the hiss, hum, hush, hunger, and heat that signaled a new chapter creeping over the horizon.
The only compass worth trusting was the slow churn of blood in my ears. And if anyone demanded a reason if some cosmic prosecutor stepped forward waving a subpoena for explanation, well, I’d shrug and let the single truthful syllable slip from cracked lips.
In the instant before night finished swallowing us whole, her hand found mine, fingers lacing without ceremony or apology. Outside, the first neon sign sputtered to life, stuttering pink against the windshield. Inside, the story kept writing itself, line by reckless line, as the world’s volume knob twisted down to a conspiratorial whisper and we slipped, skin to vinyl, into whatever outlaw dawn waited beyond the windshield.
- JSPC (This tale is full of rabid ferrets and fed them amphetamines. Good luck petting the plot.)
