Ruth and Ray
A couple is in a van roaring and squeaking across the desert. The sky is unusually grey, and the sun is a sad, faded button. A dim little thing that you can stare at without squinting.
“Wake up baby, it’s time to die.” The driver Ray says. It’s proffered with abandon. An undertone of dementia sustains the sound, but it still comes across with a certainty and placidness that makes it bounce off the cheap metal walls and fill the van with foreboding.
Ruth was pretending to be asleep for the last twenty minutes. She and Ray weren’t in the best of terms since the thing at Denver. She’d keep busy, or pretend to be busy, just so they wouldn’t have to talk. There was a silence between them now. A palpable sphere, that if opaque would cover the sight of the other entirely, but for the forehead.
"Wake up baby, it’s time to die.” shakes her enough, touching awake a deep angst. It means they are close now. That whatever happened before would matter none in two hours or so. That whatever little trust still binds Ruth and Ray together is enough to see this last deed done.
In the dull sky, two vultures glide unaware of the the van driving South, unaware of the couple inside it, and their misery. Unaware of a box-full of ice in the back. The trail of dust left by the roaring, squeaky van goes for half a mile, becoming indistinct with the sky in the far distance.
“Wake up baby, it’s time to die.” The driver Ray says. It’s proffered with abandon. An undertone of dementia sustains the sound, but it still comes across with a certainty and placidness that makes it bounce off the cheap metal walls and fill the van with foreboding.
Ruth was pretending to be asleep for the last twenty minutes. She and Ray weren’t in the best of terms since the thing at Denver. She’d keep busy, or pretend to be busy, just so they wouldn’t have to talk. There was a silence between them now. A palpable sphere, that if opaque would cover the sight of the other entirely, but for the forehead.
"Wake up baby, it’s time to die.” shakes her enough, touching awake a deep angst. It means they are close now. That whatever happened before would matter none in two hours or so. That whatever little trust still binds Ruth and Ray together is enough to see this last deed done.
In the dull sky, two vultures glide unaware of the the van driving South, unaware of the couple inside it, and their misery. Unaware of a box-full of ice in the back. The trail of dust left by the roaring, squeaky van goes for half a mile, becoming indistinct with the sky in the far distance.