West Texas goes on forever.
Desert and trees, farms, plateaus, ugly little gas stations, rolling green pastures, it was hard to tell just what the geography was like, they’d been in the car that long. Time was measured in miles, in playlists, in podcasts of This American Life.
“I don’t know why Israel and Palestine are so caught up in that little bit of land. All that sand,” he looked down at the gauges to check the gas tank, “I don’t know why they don’t come here. It’s empty. All these farms. I’m sure their quality of life would improve.” A storm was rolling in from the south, and they were both certain that they’d drive right through it, right past it, they’d still be driving when the next storm came through. “Would anyone mind?”
She was craving a cigarette. Her feet were up on the dashboard, the air from the vents climbing down her legs, giving her a cool reprieve from the heat of the chair, the heat of West Texas. The taste of him still lingered on her lips from a few hours back, when the privacy of a swarm of eighteen-wheelers had sent her wordlessly to his lap. Nestled between his abs and the steering wheel, she’d had the urge to nap.
“Lightning,” he said, looking at the horizon to his right. He’d said it calmly, as if the word was completely disconnected from the electricity of what it described. He imagined himself, briefly, as an airline pilot on a transatlantic flight, or something longer. West Texas was as big as the sky. He looked at the smudge her toes had left on the windshield and knew they would be there for a very long time.
