A small town in central Virginia:
. . . .they left the restaurant and took off down Main Street in the direction opposite the place where they’d parked the truck. Dig allowed himself to fall a pace-and-a-half behind her, watching her move, her clothes so dark against the concrete that with the help of a slug or two of Jack Daniels he might have confused her with her shadow.
She walked slower than he’d ever seen her walk before.
A step. Three-quarters of a breath. A step.
Making eye contact with every person they passed, even the people who struggled to avoid it.
Greeting the ones who smiled at her. Smiling at the ones who didn’t.
Five blocks from the restaurant a gray-haired lady stepped out of a pastry shop and asked them to come inside. The air in the shop was odorless, and Dig blamed the AC; its ferocious campaign to keep all the chocolate from melting.
The gray-haired lady handed Abida a chocolate cherry chunky. She held it in both hands, as if dropping the pastry would incur something awful. Abida took it from her, and also used both hands. She chewed and swallowed, and she told the lady thank you, and they walked out to the street again, Abida smiling even wider than she had before, her hands rolled into fists, and they walked down to the end of Main Street, where an interpretive sign directed their attention to a building on the opposite corner, a landmark of the Civil War, its walls still riddled with the pockmarks of bullets.
. . . .they left the restaurant and took off down Main Street in the direction opposite the place where they’d parked the truck. Dig allowed himself to fall a pace-and-a-half behind her, watching her move, her clothes so dark against the concrete that with the help of a slug or two of Jack Daniels he might have confused her with her shadow.
She walked slower than he’d ever seen her walk before.
A step. Three-quarters of a breath. A step.
Making eye contact with every person they passed, even the people who struggled to avoid it.
Greeting the ones who smiled at her. Smiling at the ones who didn’t.
Five blocks from the restaurant a gray-haired lady stepped out of a pastry shop and asked them to come inside. The air in the shop was odorless, and Dig blamed the AC; its ferocious campaign to keep all the chocolate from melting.
The gray-haired lady handed Abida a chocolate cherry chunky. She held it in both hands, as if dropping the pastry would incur something awful. Abida took it from her, and also used both hands. She chewed and swallowed, and she told the lady thank you, and they walked out to the street again, Abida smiling even wider than she had before, her hands rolled into fists, and they walked down to the end of Main Street, where an interpretive sign directed their attention to a building on the opposite corner, a landmark of the Civil War, its walls still riddled with the pockmarks of bullets.
No comments:
Post a Comment