She fed him as he drove, slicing cheese and putting it on crackers with bits of olive or pepper or salami. It appeared that she’d packed his entire fridge in the picnic bags.After suppertime, she went to work on an apple, and he took a closer look at the knife she was using. It was a big, black hunting knife, with a compass built into the handle. The blade was black except right at the edge, where it gleamed sharp in the click-clack of the passing highway lights.He was transfixed by it, and the car drifted a little, sprayed gravel from the shoulder, and he overcorrected and fishtailed a little. She looked up in alarm.“You brought the knife,” he said, in response to her unasked question.“Couldn’t leave it with him,” she said. “Besides, a sharp knife is handy.”“Careful you don’t slice anything off, okay?”“I never cut anythingunintentionally,” she said in a silly-dramatic voice, and socked him in the shoulder.He snorted and went back to the driving, putting the hammer down, eating up the kilometers toward Huntsville and beyond.She fed him slices of apple and ate some herself, then rolls of ham with little pieces of pear in them, then sips of cherry juice from a glass bottle.“Enough,” he said at last. “I’m stuffed, woman!”She laughed. “Skinny little fucker—gotta put some meat on your bones.” She tidied the dinner detritus into an empty shopping bag and tossed it over her shoulder into the back seat.“So,” she said. “How long since you’ve been home?”He stared at the road for a while. “Fifteen years,” he said. “Never been back since I left.”She stared straight forward and worked her hand under his thigh, so he was sitting on it, then wriggled her knuckles.“I’ve never been home,” she said.He wrinkled his brow. “What’s that mean?” he said.“It’s a long story,” she said.“Well, let’s get off the highway and get a room and you can tell me, okay?”“Sure,” she said.
She fed him as he drove, slicing cheese and putting it on crackers with bits of olive or pepper or salami. It appeared that she’d packed his entire fridge in the picnic bags.
After suppertime, she went to work on an apple, and he took a closer look at the knife she was using. It was a big, black hunting knife, with a compass built into the handle. The blade was black except right at the edge, where it gleamed sharp in the click-clack of the passing highway lights.
He was transfixed by it, and the car drifted a little, sprayed gravel from the shoulder, and he overcorrected and fishtailed a little. She looked up in alarm.
“You brought the knife,” he said, in response to her unasked question.
“Couldn’t leave it with him,” she said. “Besides, a sharp knife is handy.”
“Careful you don’t slice anything off, okay?”
“I never cut anythingunintentionally,” she said in a silly-dramatic voice, and socked him in the shoulder.
He snorted and went back to the driving, putting the hammer down, eating up the kilometers toward Huntsville and beyond.
She fed him slices of apple and ate some herself, then rolls of ham with little pieces of pear in them, then sips of cherry juice from a glass bottle.
“Enough,” he said at last. “I’m stuffed, woman!”
She laughed. “Skinny little fucker—gotta put some meat on your bones.” She tidied the dinner detritus into an empty shopping bag and tossed it over her shoulder into the back seat.
“So,” she said. “How long since you’ve been home?”
He stared at the road for a while. “Fifteen years,” he said. “Never been back since I left.”
She stared straight forward and worked her hand under his thigh, so he was sitting on it, then wriggled her knuckles.
“I’ve never been home,” she said.
He wrinkled his brow. “What’s that mean?” he said.
“It’s a long story,” she said.
“Well, let’s get off the highway and get a room and you can tell me, okay?”
“Sure,” she said.