TRACES SPRING 2016 - Page 54

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September 20, 1983.

The air was dark and heavy with the promise of rain; dark clouds roiled and bubbled with malicious intent, white streaks of lightning occasionally piercing through the thick stew of the brewing storm. Dark green leaves fading to crisp oranges and yellows and reds were dancing on the wind, movements so sleek it was as if they were made to be caught by the sky’s fingers, to grace the open blue terrain with natural technique and elegance.

A man stood huddled at the base of a thick pine, the sturdy base strong despite the top desperately trying to dance among the leaves. He was bundled up against the cold with a ratty jean jacket that looked dull but still held its own against the elements. His tan hands were tucked firmly underneath his arms, and on his face was a scowl, eyes tracking the movements of every little thing.

The man’s posture was stern and taught, yet relaxed and casual. It seemed as if he was waiting for something; that something did not take long, as a woman strode up to meet him, hair pulled back tightly with a beehive style on the top. She popped her gum when she was within a foot of the man, chewing noisily as she knew that it aggravates him.

“Val,” the man growled, more animal than human. He swung his glowing eyes, the color of the irises a handsome color, much like sunlight shining through whiskey. “Y’know I hate it when you do that.”

The woman, Val, shrugged, spitting out her gum with a reluctant sight.

“Sorry, Joey,” she said, her voice high and scratchy. “Just wanted to let cha’ know there’s a Chevy broken down- some college boys, Sapiens from the smell of ‘em. They was fightin’, thinkin’ they don’t need no help.” Val perched her hand on her hip, twisting her hair between her nimble fingers.

Joey curled his lip, turning away from the empty road he was facing. “What’s that gotta do with me?” He rumbled, the sound low in his chest, the sound making the woman lower her head and bare her throat.

By: Julianne Beene

That Old Chevy