The sounds are soothing. She can hear her real nature in their dimness. The fog of old music in the background, the crunch of gravel as another truck pulls in. Old sounds that hide the anxious, nervous fires. They muffle the intrusive and constant remember when he voices that sometimes force her awake. A song, a glass of gin, or many, the flat coo of background conversation that has nothing to do with her. She, always laughing or cringing, the polar parts of her. She is in control. She has to be strong, crush the anxious, bury the worthless. Music, a drink, and left alone. These are the things that she tends.
Why she left doesn’t matter. She understands his sorrow because she feels it pulsing in herself.
The door swings open, and in walks another pretend cowboy, complete with hat and rogue mustache. Gray at the temples, the ninety-dollar Calvins, the L.L Bean denim shirt fresh out the wrapper. Oh, and the imitation snakeskin boots. Of course. More East Coast than Eastwood. A whiskey-drinking (water on the side) son-of-a-gun ready to stir the purdy ladies.
He moseys towards her when he sees her looking, big beefy grin at the ready, and she says: “No thanks. I’d really love to break your heart, but no.”
Why were they always so goddamn sure?