Tuesday, February 14, 2012
She asked how he'd gotten himself to West Texas. He was driving, left arm out the window, hanging as if to cure in the early evening heat, his leathery hand banging the door of the old Suburban in time with Peggy Sue coming in clear from the El Paso station she liked. They were returning from dinner at the Chuy's in Van Horn. He turned down the radio.
Same way a ball stops rolling.
Have you stopped?
Feels like it.
He nodded and finally looked at her, hauling in his left hand and dropping it on the steering wheel at high-noon, taking hers in his right and pulling her close. She kissed his cheek quickly like a schoolgirl, making him smile though she didn't see it, tuning the radio to a different station at the sound of a commercial, finding Freddie Fender singing Alla En El Rancho Grande, then singing along, staring out her window at the Cuesta del Burro range, a new shade of burning purple in the bruise of a sunset already in Chihuahua. He watched her, studying her wrinkles, the streaks of grey that would in time overtake the deep Rio Grande brown. He imagined her silverhaired.
Do I get a Spanish lesson tonight?
She smiled though he didn't see it, eyes back on the road.
Si. Mas escuela.
His laugh surprised her, then haunted her a moment, though she didn't know why.
don't do it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kE9gISp1y4