As the sun begins to retire for the day, we sit here in my black, 1965 Lincoln Continental convertible, gazing upon the glowing city skyline that is illuminated in orange and red, a perfect complement to the burning house at the bottom of the cliff.
This shared moment couldn’t be any more perfect.
I look over at her.
How did I get so lucky?
With her I don’t have to talk. I can simply enjoy her company, me eating a vanilla cone as she inhales a burger and fries.
Food gone, she looks longingly at me, so I extend my right arm to share my ice cream.
She is so adorable. Her inherent beauty is magnified by her quirky imperfections, especially that slight under bite and scarred face, some scars more pink and fresh than others.
The sun finally disappears, and we are cloaked by the black, star-filled sky. I continue to marvel at the smoldering house, taking it in, processing it, and developing it as if I am a photographer in a dark room.
Reaching for the ignition, I pause. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes for a very brief moment. All I see is the pathetic expression on his face, his struggle. And those ***** cuss words he spat at me – if only I had had soap, but I didn’t. I lean over to Casey and take off her collar, throwing the encasement of her old life out of the car and into the endless mystery that lies beneath us.
The blisters on my left forearm begin to sting and throb, the heat disrupting the stillness of this reality.
I need a bag of ice and a bottle of whiskey.
I can’t wait until we are settled into my apartment, enjoying that cheap air conditioning as we cuddle and watch re-runs of the Andy Griffith Show.