Post by Kaili on Sept 6, 2015 23:40:03 GMT
Romance isn’t the highway.
Out there, somewhere, he’s sure of it, there’s a romantic story for a buck or two on the movie screen or cheap print about the allures of the free traveling spirit. Somewhere there’s a tale about some hetereosexual couple, family, or man being sweeped into America’s full glory from the theater of their car. They talk about the nights spent under the stars, the height of the Grand Canyon, and the edge of Niagara Falls. There’s a tale somewhere with a happy ending and a clean cut story how a backyard volkswagen is the answer to a person’s prayers for change.
They always seem to forget the cash. Gas doesn’t grow on trees and the location of each station has, at times, become a life or death situation (there’s a reason there’s five gallons in the box of his pickup). The crampedness even for a single, somewhat small man in the back of his extended cab isn’t put into any detail. Hotel rooms shadier than nights without the moon are hardly mentioned. Solitary jobs on the side aren’t ever put into words. Loneliness marked with desperation are qualities at the beginning but are answered by the end.
Truck repairs are never covered.
Maybe it’s just a bad day to begin with. There’s the croak of Lana Del Rey in the background of his old speakers jamming from the self-installed system. A water bottle comes to meet his lips and is finished in one gulp. The boy of aesthetic is instead dressed in the bedraggling appearance of sweats and an old t-shirt. His head is still pounding from the night before in some town that if he focuses really hard on he can recall. The night is shaky in his mind and there’s a dull ache on hips that he can’t tell if it’s a bite or the pang of a beer bottle. What’s worse of all is that there is no civilization in sight and he has no idea where he is except that he is has a mad hankering for McDonald’s.
He’s supposed to remember something about that craving for some reason in particular but, in all honesty, he can’t recall. There’s a zombie-like attitude to his driving as he nearly leans on the wheel, pressing himself to focus on the road. Dullness runs around his head to the point even his senses have been dragged through the mud. He hasn’t hit something but there’s the not-so-slow falling sensation on his passenger side. Pulling over, he’s suddenly aware of the hell he’s in for.
The redhead slips out of the blue pickup and, with the reluctance of a man approaching certain death, peeks carefully to the other side of his automobile.
”Oh no,” he whispers once before giving an exasperated sigh and leaning on the hood. He looks up to the blazing sun of an indian summer before rubbing his eyes as if the hangover would somehow come off if he truly tried hard enough. Then, all at once, he gives a lighthearted laugh.
”Of course it would. Of course it would.”
Getting up and running his tongue reassuringly across the gap in his front teeth, he digs in the box to get his emergency kit for side-of-the-road repairs. A true wayward soul comes prepared.
Spraying the tire down and finding the hole, the werewolf begins with a groan of effort the repair.
Romance isn’t flat tires and on a sunny day.
Out there, somewhere, he’s sure of it, there’s a romantic story for a buck or two on the movie screen or cheap print about the allures of the free traveling spirit. Somewhere there’s a tale about some hetereosexual couple, family, or man being sweeped into America’s full glory from the theater of their car. They talk about the nights spent under the stars, the height of the Grand Canyon, and the edge of Niagara Falls. There’s a tale somewhere with a happy ending and a clean cut story how a backyard volkswagen is the answer to a person’s prayers for change.
They always seem to forget the cash. Gas doesn’t grow on trees and the location of each station has, at times, become a life or death situation (there’s a reason there’s five gallons in the box of his pickup). The crampedness even for a single, somewhat small man in the back of his extended cab isn’t put into any detail. Hotel rooms shadier than nights without the moon are hardly mentioned. Solitary jobs on the side aren’t ever put into words. Loneliness marked with desperation are qualities at the beginning but are answered by the end.
Truck repairs are never covered.
Maybe it’s just a bad day to begin with. There’s the croak of Lana Del Rey in the background of his old speakers jamming from the self-installed system. A water bottle comes to meet his lips and is finished in one gulp. The boy of aesthetic is instead dressed in the bedraggling appearance of sweats and an old t-shirt. His head is still pounding from the night before in some town that if he focuses really hard on he can recall. The night is shaky in his mind and there’s a dull ache on hips that he can’t tell if it’s a bite or the pang of a beer bottle. What’s worse of all is that there is no civilization in sight and he has no idea where he is except that he is has a mad hankering for McDonald’s.
He’s supposed to remember something about that craving for some reason in particular but, in all honesty, he can’t recall. There’s a zombie-like attitude to his driving as he nearly leans on the wheel, pressing himself to focus on the road. Dullness runs around his head to the point even his senses have been dragged through the mud. He hasn’t hit something but there’s the not-so-slow falling sensation on his passenger side. Pulling over, he’s suddenly aware of the hell he’s in for.
The redhead slips out of the blue pickup and, with the reluctance of a man approaching certain death, peeks carefully to the other side of his automobile.
”Oh no,” he whispers once before giving an exasperated sigh and leaning on the hood. He looks up to the blazing sun of an indian summer before rubbing his eyes as if the hangover would somehow come off if he truly tried hard enough. Then, all at once, he gives a lighthearted laugh.
”Of course it would. Of course it would.”
Getting up and running his tongue reassuringly across the gap in his front teeth, he digs in the box to get his emergency kit for side-of-the-road repairs. A true wayward soul comes prepared.
Spraying the tire down and finding the hole, the werewolf begins with a groan of effort the repair.
Romance isn’t flat tires and on a sunny day.