Too intoxicated to do so safely, they piled into Hatchet's truck and drove to the coffee shop through the swirling density of powder and ice. Hatchet gave Oscar a hug but kept the greeting brief and wandered through the place, searching for the photograph. As he perused the walls, Oscar and Poole watched him, debating on who would break the news. When Hatchet turned to them in confusion, Did you sell it, Oscar? I should have, he snapped, had a lot of offers, damn thing took up too much fucking space anyway. So what the fuck? Poole explained the overt connection between Jane's departure and the picture's disappearance. So she robbed the joint, eh, Oscar? Hatchet said and smiled at a lonely space against the black surface of the wall.
He sat in Jane's preferred chair, lost in the scene that had been her only physical connection to him for months. He could see every detail. The black brushing of rain escaping the flat belly of the storm, stroking the endless plain below it, the jagged bundle of lighting perforating the divided horizon. The grass stretching out across the earth, shifting in the turbulent air as if it were the wind-blown hide of some great beast. The eternal distance from point of view through the wash of dark and light, drawing one's eyes as if by magnetism or sorcery captured in a split second of serendipity.
Good for her, he said.
You okay, Hatchet?
Yeah, Poole, I'm fine.
So they drank more beer and hard cider, arguing about music until at some dark hour, Malorie graced the front door of the shop. Hatchet went still as the cold reached around her and stopped him in flummoxed repose. Even in her hulking winter attire, she seemed thinner and taller, older. She made the distance from the entrance to the counter, giving Poole a quick smile. Poole jostled his eyebrows at Hatchet.
Among the other customers, she shined. His memory of her an aura of diminished scarlet, her eyes sparkling as she rummaged in her pocket book. He examined every detail, the curve of her ear, the faint trail of red hair traveling the anterior of her neck. She turned and met him eye to eye. He smiled. Hello, she said then turned again to advance in line to the register. Hatchet listened to her order the hot tea and hoped she might be realizing some familiarity for him.
Before he could make the move he had schemed to reveal himself, two Dog Boys came through the rear entrance in raucous exchange. Hatchet darted back to Poole and grabbed him by the collar. We have to go. What the—. Just get your ass up and let's go. Trouble down memory lane? You might say that. They were in the truck and a part of the billowing darkness before Malorie had turned and searched the room in cognizance of her admirer.
He sat in Jane's preferred chair, lost in the scene that had been her only physical connection to him for months. He could see every detail. The black brushing of rain escaping the flat belly of the storm, stroking the endless plain below it, the jagged bundle of lighting perforating the divided horizon. The grass stretching out across the earth, shifting in the turbulent air as if it were the wind-blown hide of some great beast. The eternal distance from point of view through the wash of dark and light, drawing one's eyes as if by magnetism or sorcery captured in a split second of serendipity.
Good for her, he said.
You okay, Hatchet?
Yeah, Poole, I'm fine.
So they drank more beer and hard cider, arguing about music until at some dark hour, Malorie graced the front door of the shop. Hatchet went still as the cold reached around her and stopped him in flummoxed repose. Even in her hulking winter attire, she seemed thinner and taller, older. She made the distance from the entrance to the counter, giving Poole a quick smile. Poole jostled his eyebrows at Hatchet.
Among the other customers, she shined. His memory of her an aura of diminished scarlet, her eyes sparkling as she rummaged in her pocket book. He examined every detail, the curve of her ear, the faint trail of red hair traveling the anterior of her neck. She turned and met him eye to eye. He smiled. Hello, she said then turned again to advance in line to the register. Hatchet listened to her order the hot tea and hoped she might be realizing some familiarity for him.
Before he could make the move he had schemed to reveal himself, two Dog Boys came through the rear entrance in raucous exchange. Hatchet darted back to Poole and grabbed him by the collar. We have to go. What the—. Just get your ass up and let's go. Trouble down memory lane? You might say that. They were in the truck and a part of the billowing darkness before Malorie had turned and searched the room in cognizance of her admirer.
Edit 12.20.2018