Drifter On The Horizon
Page 5
CHAPTER THREE
Unanswered Questions
Clint had attempted for weeks to get a hold of her; finally, after hundreds upon hundreds of tries she agreed to meet him. But the very sight of her makes Clint's eyes boil over, love and hate play against each other, both vying for the object of his obsession. She turns immediately after seeing the ire on his face. Without a word she leaves him sitting alone, in anger, once again.
"Azalea wait!" he calls at her back. She fights against every muscle and thought in her head begging her to turn around and give in to him.
"What? Please just stop," she cries, tears already cascade off her cheeks.
"Just tell me this, what... no, where did I go wrong? I treated you good, didn't I? I did everything you asked," he pleads, still not possessing the fortitude to rise from the park bench. She tries to stymie her tears in the wind before responding.
"There's nothing to tell... It's nothing you did, can't you see? We're terrible for each other. Things just fell apart and I couldn't live like that. I hate to see you like this," she says, taking two tentative steps towards him. She grabs his hand without sitting down. At her slightest touch his eyes lose all sense of hate, instead envy and regret rush to fill the void. "I can't tell you where you... where we went wrong. But it was both of us, not just you, we both screwed things up. If we bring each other this much pain... we shouldn't be together," she says meekly.
She takes a calming breath then with resolve she continues, "either way, it's over, you have to accept it," she lets his hand slip away, he lets her go without resistance, all the fight in him has momentarily died. The breeze dries his heavy tears enough to let great salt deposits build on his rough cheeks. He sits for hours, waiting for at least one wound to heal. None do. Hatred has replaced every emotion and fiber of his being.
__________
As Zale slowly lowers himself down in the backseat of his car he tries to let sleep overcome him again. If he's lucky he wakes up with ideas which he writes down to create his meager living. After the small and constant catastrophes of the past few days, all he wants to do is sleep and find some real adventure. The ball of light from yesterday has already driven him to near madness and another drive deep into the desert seemed the only remedy, to be in the solitude he so craves. Just him and his trusty vehicle in a land of nothing. His car, that not only serves as his transportation but his home, has caused unwanted inquiries into his personal life. The question of his living situation has been brought up more than once, why on God's good earth would someone with enough money to not live out of their car do just that? It seems simple enough to him, why would he sleep in a stale hotel room where the rare smell of other people's filth and the harsh reek of cleaning products mingle freely, where the hallways seem more like something out of a horror film than a place of rest. The idea of an apartment doesn't make sense to him either, the idea of establishing any sort of roots or tying himself to worthless objects sounds like a new type of waterboarding; any form of commitment has always scared him to death.
Zale lets his mind drift away from the troublesome day and into the nothingness that is sleep, the great void of time where nothing and everything about the world are truly relevant. He used to have the hardest time sleeping, but after he realized how exciting his dreams are compared to his boring life, sleep now comes at his slightest command. The blackness of his eyelids start to slowly change into a landscape of pictures and colors, merging to become one all-dominating vision. He hopes for a dream of the glowing woman but he gets this instead...
The woman's carefree approach makes the hairs on his exposed wrists stand at attention. It's not very often that such a noble-looking woman would be willing to approach the hero in such a filthy place. The saloon has dust competing for every available square inch, the bartender's skin seems to be made from the same wood as the disgustingly beer covered bar top, the fat sweating pianist has been passed out on his instrument for at least the last two hours. The hero's table is so dilapidated he can't understand how it's still standing. The approaching woman's lace shoes look like they're worth more than the whole place put together, alcohol included. The rest of her dress is worth more than he can even fathom; it would be best not to get on her bad side.
"I'm in need of your assistance, ranger," she says to him, her voice reeks of wealth.
"What can I do for you?" he asks and polishes off his drink. She motions towards the chair opposite him.
"By all means," he says and pushes the flimsy chair decorating his table with his right boot towards her.
"Thank you," she says with a minor curtsy. The plump and overly friendly waitress hurls herself at him yet again, her sweat mixes repugnantly with his.
"Another drink hero?" she says with only the slightest note of sarcasm. Everyone around this nasty town knows how much money he made after collecting the bounty on the Butcher's head, and everyone single person is trying to pry the recently acquired coins from his frugal fingers.
"Why not? Did you come to join me for a drink?" he says to the rich woman and pushes the waitress towards the bar.
"No, I have a business proposition for you."
"What might that be?"
"Transportation is awfully dangerous for a woman of my stature. And you... you seem to be just the type of man to help me. The way you handled that outlaw was quite impressive," she says, her southern drawl reveals itself fully throughout the sentence. The waitress drops off his drink without a word but eyes the far luckier and prettier woman. The hero stares at her, weighing his options. The drunken pianist explodes back to reality, his fingers start plucking a song before his body recognizes the effort. The hero's silence lets the drunken playing of the pianist fill the void between him and the stunning lady.
"What's your name? Obviously, you must have quite the name to match your elegant appearance," he says with the slightest of chuckles.
"Michele, but that's more than you need to know. There's no need for other formalities, I've done enough snooping around to find out everything important about you," she says with such authority he dares not challenge her. "Are you coming with me or not?"
"Where are you going... Michele?" he questions. It takes a minute to remember her name after so many drinks.
"Not far, it's only a two day trip. Yes or no? I have to know now. We depart in the morning," she says giving him such an icy stare he almost feels cold in this unbearable heat.
"Why not?"
A blazing light cuts the the conversation short, the rays of light compound to infinity, into something nuclear that turns everything in his little town to dust. A woman follows in the center of the blaze, floating through the desolation, demolishing everything except for the hero. He can't resist her power and falls.
When Zale opens his eyes he's greeted with the bland and ripped ceiling of his station wagon instead of the awesome power of the glowing woman or the dirty saloon. He brushes aside a dangling piece of ceiling cloth, sits up, and sighs.
"Just as it was getting good," Zale complains to no one in particular, a disturbing habit he picked up after one too many long and frequent spells of isolation. He knows what must be done to continue his dreams, and by extension his writing. He's going to have to find the radiant woman, who has somehow managed to interfere with both his dreams and his real life after one encounter. He looks into the cold darkness of the desert night for answers.