the short hello, the long goodbye

"Proper greeting." That was her way of saying, "kiss me." It was a command as much as a request. It was a thing. Their code. He'd comply. And then he'd immediately wipe his lips with his sleeve. That was a thing, too. Saliva. Germs. But that was their greeting ritual, such as it was. It was no mating dance. Gawd no. Quite the opposite. Typically it played out when he got into the car. She always drove. He had lost his license after the third DWI. 

"Proper greeting."

He ignored it, and sullen and silent in the passenger seat.

"Didn't you hear me?"

Nothing.

She shifted into drive.

Instead of turning left, she took a right, and then another right. The car sailed onto the interstate ramp, heading west into the sunset.

"Where ya goin'?"

"Fuck you, you fuckin' fuck."

"What?! What are you talkin' about? What got into you? What are you doing? Where are we going?"

"You fuckin' heard me."

Silence.

At the toll booth, she took the 20 mph E-ZPass lane.

After a stony, infinite 30 miles, he said, "Pull over. Let me out. Just let me the fuck out. I'm done. Stop!"

She crawled to a stop on the shoulder.

The lavender rouge sunset was postcard perfect.

He opened the door, not looking at her. He got out.

She put her left blinker on and pulled back onto the Thruway.

After another 30 miles, she turned the radio on. As she scanned and scoured for music, nothing came on out in the country, just crackles of news and preacher stations.

She pushed the button to turn the radio off.

She turned the headlights on.

A song came into her head, something from the eighties. She couldn't remember the words, barely the tune. Something about a chameleon. 

She hummed it, the best she could remember, gave a finger to the windshield, and burst into laughter. 

 

The Seagull-Raven Affair

Out the front door, she sees a billowing flash from the edge of her peripheal vision. Is it white? A rippling sailing. Startling. Gust. A seagull, it swoops, arcs, and lassoes swiftly forward and above, squawking. Squawking to her. Persistent. Loops back up, down, and then around her head, circumscribing a vanilla-ish neon halo. She walks faster. Coincidence nudged aside in favor of some sort of omen, meaning, or sacrament. She hits the car fob. From nowhere, a raven intercepts the seagull's flight, just above the car. Harlequin contrasts of black and white. Checkerboard. The raven has a few words of its own to shout. A flock arrives, as if on call. She gets in the car. It doesn't start. She tries again. It turns over. She can't get out of there fast enough.

Bedtime Story, Act I

Can you give me a lift? I can pay you for gas.
Where to?
Over to the West Side, just over the city line.
People still hitchhike? And at your age?
You don't know my age.
Just saying. It was a Sixties and Seventies thing. But frowned upon. Because . . .
You gonna give me a ride or not?
Yeah, yeah. Calm down. Sure. How much for gas?
Ten.
Make it twelve.
Why twelve?
Cosmic.
Deal.
I need it now. Because, you know. Ya never know.
What's next, a "request" for a blowjob or get out and walk?
Too predictable.
True.
Let's dispense with the basic formalities. I'm Raoul. And you are . . .
Lefty.
Lefty? Not very feminine.
Not very feminine? Who the fuck are you to say?
No one. No one at all. "Fuck" ain't so feminine either, but I guess that depends on what you mean by "fuck" and what I mean by "feminine."
Here's twelve singles, one is a little ripped.
We're all damaged. Thank you. Appreciate it.
No prob.
What street we going to?
Hawthorne.
I prefer Emerson or Thoreau, with a dash of Melville.
Aren't you clever. 
I am that. What block?
1200 Hawthorne.
Got it. I hope this is nothing illegal.
Why do you say that, Raul?
Raoul. The French spelling.
Are you French?
I am not. Are you?
No, sir, if I may be so formal.
I like your voice. It's soothing. The voice a kid wants to hear for a bedtime story.
Do people still do that?
What? Speak with voices instead of texts?
No, tell bedtime stories.
Yes, I'm sure.
It's getting dark.
It's not dark yet but it's getting there.
Bob Dylan.
Excellent.
You're the second person in two days to talk about my voice.
Really? In a good way?
Yeah, what's your bedtime story?
What are you wearing?
What do you mean? That sounds naughty, especially for a so-called bedtime so-called story.
You know. Scent.
Chance. By Chanel.
As in, don't take chances?
The bedtime story, please.
Once upon a time...
Please.
Once upon a time an elderly man without any visible tattoos, a courtly fellow with a slight British accent, posh, wearing Tom Ford Ombre Leather, glided his 1957 Thunderbird convertible to a gentle stop on Strait Street as he saw a hitchhiker, an anomaly of the age, her thumb out, corny, as in an old movie, slightly sullen, not smiling but catching the driver's eye. The car stopped, but not the driver's mental ruminations. She was in her forties, likely, cut-off frayed blue jeans, hot August evening, Versace (maybe) shades atop her dirty blonde hair, tall, willowy, statuesque. Stately. Green eyes, but possibly blue or hazel from this distance. This spelled danger. Something out of a film noir that the film's backers chickened out on as a lousy financial risk. He rolled down the passenger-side window electronically. (The windows up on the convertible helped his hearing and didn't mess up his hair.) As he began to call out to her, he found himself yawning. She yawned.
Hey, it's right here. Stop. Here it is. 1200. Hawthorne.
I guess this is it.
I guess it is.
I guess so. 
See you.
Maybe see you again.
Thanks. Yeah. See ya.