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Authors: J. A. Redmerski
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are so long it looks uncomfortable to me. He’s wearing those stylish work-boot-looking things. Dr. Martens, I think. Dammit. Ian always wore those. I look away, not really in any mood to further this very strange conversation with this very strange person.
That old lady I met in Tennessee was right.
He looks over at me, his head pressed comfortably against the itchy fabric behind him. “Classic Rock is where it’s at,” he says matter-of-factly and then gazes out ahead. “Zeppelin, the Stones, Journey, Foreigner.” He lets his head fall to the side to look over at me again. “Any of that ringing any bells?”
I scoff and roll my eyes again. “I’m not stupid ,” I say, but then change my tune when I realize I can’t think of many classic rock bands and I don’t want to make myself look stupid after so eloquently saying that I’m not. “I like…Bad Company.”
A little grin lifts one side of his mouth. “Name one song by Bad Company and I’ll leave you alone about it.”
I’m nervous as hell now, trying to think of any song by Bad Company other than the one he had been listening to. I’m not going to look this guy in the face and say the words: I Feel Like Makin’ Love .
He waits patiently, that grin of his still in-tact.
“ Ready For Love ,” I say because it’s the only other one I can think of.
“ Are you?” he asks.
“Huh?”
A smile etches deeper into his face. “Nothing,” he says, looking away.
I blush. I don’t know why and I don’t want to know why.
“Look,” I say, “do you mind? I was sort of using both seats.”
He smiles, this time without the smirk hiding behind his eyes. “Sure,” he says getting up. “But if you want to borrow my MP3 player, you know where it’s at.”
I smile slimly, relieved more than anything that he’s going to move back to his seat without a fight. “Thanks,” I say, appreciative, nonetheless.
Just before he makes it all the way back, he leans around the outside seat and says, “Where are you going, anyway?”
“Idaho.”
His bright green eyes seem to light up when he smiles. “Well, I’m heading to Wyoming, so looks like we’ll be sharing a few busses.” And then his smiling face disappears somewhere behind me.
I won’t deny that he’s attractive. The short, tousled haircut, the toned arms and sculpted cheekbones, the dimples and how that stupid fucking grin of his makes me more willing to look at him even though I don’t want to. But the reality is that it’s not like I’m into him, or anything—he’s a random stranger on a road-to-nowhere bus. No way in hell would I ever entertain something like that. And even if he wasn’t, even if I knew him for six months, I wouldn’t go there. Not ever. Not anymore.
~~~
The endless ride through Kansas seems to take longer than it should. I guess I never thought about how big states really are. You look at a map and it’s just this piece of paper in front of you with oddly-shaped borders and veiny little lines. Even Texas seems pretty small when you’re looking down at it like that, and always traveling everywhere by plane helps feed the delusion that the next state is just an hour away. Another hour and a half and my back and butt feel like stiff, hard pieces of meat. I’m constantly shifting on the seat, hoping to find some way to sit to relieve the tenderness, but I just end up making other parts of my body sore.
I’m only starting to regret this because the bus ride sucks.
I hear the bus intercom squeal once and then the driver’s voice:
“We’ll be stopping for a break in five minutes,” he says. “You will have fifteen minutes to grab a bite to eat before we get back on the road. Fifteen minutes. I will not wait longer, so if you’re not back in that time the bus will leave without you.” The speaker goes dead.
The announcement causes everyone to stir in their seats and gather their purses and such—nothing like talk of getting to stretch
That old lady I met in Tennessee was right.
He looks over at me, his head pressed comfortably against the itchy fabric behind him. “Classic Rock is where it’s at,” he says matter-of-factly and then gazes out ahead. “Zeppelin, the Stones, Journey, Foreigner.” He lets his head fall to the side to look over at me again. “Any of that ringing any bells?”
I scoff and roll my eyes again. “I’m not stupid ,” I say, but then change my tune when I realize I can’t think of many classic rock bands and I don’t want to make myself look stupid after so eloquently saying that I’m not. “I like…Bad Company.”
A little grin lifts one side of his mouth. “Name one song by Bad Company and I’ll leave you alone about it.”
I’m nervous as hell now, trying to think of any song by Bad Company other than the one he had been listening to. I’m not going to look this guy in the face and say the words: I Feel Like Makin’ Love .
He waits patiently, that grin of his still in-tact.
“ Ready For Love ,” I say because it’s the only other one I can think of.
“ Are you?” he asks.
“Huh?”
A smile etches deeper into his face. “Nothing,” he says, looking away.
I blush. I don’t know why and I don’t want to know why.
“Look,” I say, “do you mind? I was sort of using both seats.”
He smiles, this time without the smirk hiding behind his eyes. “Sure,” he says getting up. “But if you want to borrow my MP3 player, you know where it’s at.”
I smile slimly, relieved more than anything that he’s going to move back to his seat without a fight. “Thanks,” I say, appreciative, nonetheless.
Just before he makes it all the way back, he leans around the outside seat and says, “Where are you going, anyway?”
“Idaho.”
His bright green eyes seem to light up when he smiles. “Well, I’m heading to Wyoming, so looks like we’ll be sharing a few busses.” And then his smiling face disappears somewhere behind me.
I won’t deny that he’s attractive. The short, tousled haircut, the toned arms and sculpted cheekbones, the dimples and how that stupid fucking grin of his makes me more willing to look at him even though I don’t want to. But the reality is that it’s not like I’m into him, or anything—he’s a random stranger on a road-to-nowhere bus. No way in hell would I ever entertain something like that. And even if he wasn’t, even if I knew him for six months, I wouldn’t go there. Not ever. Not anymore.
~~~
The endless ride through Kansas seems to take longer than it should. I guess I never thought about how big states really are. You look at a map and it’s just this piece of paper in front of you with oddly-shaped borders and veiny little lines. Even Texas seems pretty small when you’re looking down at it like that, and always traveling everywhere by plane helps feed the delusion that the next state is just an hour away. Another hour and a half and my back and butt feel like stiff, hard pieces of meat. I’m constantly shifting on the seat, hoping to find some way to sit to relieve the tenderness, but I just end up making other parts of my body sore.
I’m only starting to regret this because the bus ride sucks.
I hear the bus intercom squeal once and then the driver’s voice:
“We’ll be stopping for a break in five minutes,” he says. “You will have fifteen minutes to grab a bite to eat before we get back on the road. Fifteen minutes. I will not wait longer, so if you’re not back in that time the bus will leave without you.” The speaker goes dead.
The announcement causes everyone to stir in their seats and gather their purses and such—nothing like talk of getting to stretch
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