The King

More Flash/Micro Fiction

Lighting another cigarette the old man sinks deeper into the sagging lawn chair, a frayed, collapsing throne.  He pulls down the bill of his baseball cap until it almost touches the tip of his aquiline nose.  I can hear the tobacco crackle as he takes a long drag on the unfiltered Lucky.  He smiles at me, his teeth stained the color of strong tea, smoke leaking from the corners of his mouth.  

Things are slow at the station today, not a single car in the last hour, the empty road shimmers under the sun like a white hot wire.  Sitting on the tailgate of the ‘79 Chevy, I’m still thinking about the two blondes in the convertible this morning short skirts, giggling like school girls with a nasty little secret.  Draining half of my first beer with one swallow I lay back against the hot metal bed of the pickup enjoying the head rush, shirt stuck to the middle of my back like a strip of cellophane.  The rest of the beer is in the ice chest by the entrance; on days like this I can finish a 12-pack before a single can freezes.

Listening to the bees drift between the lilacs I stare at the empty sky scored with the contrails of airliners long gone.  I never thought I’d be sitting here with him. I should be in Wyoming, Green River or Laramie, someplace cold, where the wind never stops blowing.  I hate to admit it but we have a lot in common, me and the old man, we’re both going to choose the way we die and neither of us will ever leave this place until we do.