Over the Mississippi

Same story as "Stella" --altered for contest

Over the Mississippi

 BelAir

 

 

 

 

Is it possible?

And as he smelled the fresh, acidic smell of rain coming off of her sodden flesh next to him, the answer . . . to Martin Lewiston, was all too clear.

Yes, yes, it is.He was sure of her just as he was sure the night before the woman was swaying to a lonesome beat on a crowded dance floor, alone . . . A red evening dress. Calling him in.

 

The rain was just slackening by the time they made it across the state line, leaving it night before night was due to come. He could feel her eyes on him in the darkness—

Beautiful.

The first thought was beautiful.

In the summer heat, his dark hair had dampened against his forehead. The skin beneath his clothes was bronze of hard work and long hours, but youthful. The eyes, when they met hers, were brown and clear. Hopeful.

She watched his hands grip the stirring wheel, the pink ridge of scar tissue across the back of his left, waiting there for her again. How many times had she lain under them, she wondered?

The kind of beauty that made one sure there had to be a God above.

He turned to look at her again, the only sound the smooth track of highway running under his tires. Kira would be setting out dinner for him, coercing the boys into bed.

The woman was gazing into her side mirror, instead, watching as the city’s lights fell farther and farther back from them.