She thought the baby would come, but it did not.
Matthew was in her car, parked behind the laundromat. He sat sideways, with his feet propped up on the dash. He smoked cigarette after cigarrette. Her 11-month old son was sleeping in the backseat. The front passenger side window was open, but just a crack. It was pissing down rain outside.
He had met her almost six months a go. She was almost five years older than him. And three months pregnant.
And he didn't care.
He worked the afternoon shift. Drove the forklift, for cans of soup. Brought home his pay check.
And he had cable TV and cigarettes. All the time.
She was easy to get along with.
He had decided love was only an action. And anyone could act.
She thought the baby would come, but it did not.
He drove them out to a country road. It was after two in the morning. It was no longer raining. And it felt so good, to be behind the wheel, driving too fast. He rolled down the windows. He felt the dampness of the June night right down to his bones.
And he could do this, just drive, if he wanted to.
Yeah.
He could just drive.
She would let him too.
She thougth the baby would come, but it did not.
So, they wheeled her into the operation room.
Matthew went back to town. Pulled close to the curb, outside of the bank. At the ATM, he emptied out all but 100 dollars.
Smoking cigarettes the whole way, he took Dustin to Chicago first.
He called her seven days later.
'Where are you?' is what she asked.
And he told her.
So, she walked the mile to the bank. She ached every step. She carried her new daughter in her arms.
She put the twenty-five dollars back into the bank account, so he had enough gas money to get home.
She knew he thought love was an action. He had told her so once or twice.
She had told him she thought love was a want.
When he arrived home, they had sex.
Three months later, Matthew quit smoking.
And he took off with Dustin again.
Because he wanted to.
Matthew was in her car, parked behind the laundromat. He sat sideways, with his feet propped up on the dash. He smoked cigarette after cigarrette. Her 11-month old son was sleeping in the backseat. The front passenger side window was open, but just a crack. It was pissing down rain outside.
He had met her almost six months a go. She was almost five years older than him. And three months pregnant.
And he didn't care.
He worked the afternoon shift. Drove the forklift, for cans of soup. Brought home his pay check.
And he had cable TV and cigarettes. All the time.
She was easy to get along with.
He had decided love was only an action. And anyone could act.
She thought the baby would come, but it did not.
He drove them out to a country road. It was after two in the morning. It was no longer raining. And it felt so good, to be behind the wheel, driving too fast. He rolled down the windows. He felt the dampness of the June night right down to his bones.
And he could do this, just drive, if he wanted to.
Yeah.
He could just drive.
She would let him too.
She thougth the baby would come, but it did not.
So, they wheeled her into the operation room.
Matthew went back to town. Pulled close to the curb, outside of the bank. At the ATM, he emptied out all but 100 dollars.
Smoking cigarettes the whole way, he took Dustin to Chicago first.
He called her seven days later.
'Where are you?' is what she asked.
And he told her.
So, she walked the mile to the bank. She ached every step. She carried her new daughter in her arms.
She put the twenty-five dollars back into the bank account, so he had enough gas money to get home.
She knew he thought love was an action. He had told her so once or twice.
She had told him she thought love was a want.
When he arrived home, they had sex.
Three months later, Matthew quit smoking.
And he took off with Dustin again.
Because he wanted to.
Comments
I love how my emotions get so involved in your writing, just like watching a good movie.
:)
Q
queenie. you post more stories right this second.
Working against some deadlines....
ARGH.
Q