the road unspools through the atchafalaya basin like a length of damp ribbon, half-drowned & reluctant to exist. cypress knees jut from the blackwater in arthritic clusters, pruned by the monolithic concrete arteries of the suspended bridge. moss sags from the trees in funereal veils, stirring only when the wind remembers how to breathe. the humidity makes the air feel swilling [..] not so much air as a wet hand clamped over the mouth. no houses, no gas stations; only the swamp, yawning & endless, reflecting a bleached sky that looks sick with heat.
“ are you going to let me drive? ” she asks, again. this question has accrued weight, repetition polishing it to a blade. triple digits, at least. it hangs between them, humid & metallic.
flesh dewy with sweat; sudor-kissed & fever-bright, the flush of her chest blooming upward in a pomegranate swathe to freckled cheekbones. the heat has claimed her whole— curls adhered to her neck, bare thighs sticking to the vinyl seat [..] she shifts, peeling herself free with a quiet, mortifying tack. fingers hook into the hem of her shorts, tugging, adjusting, searching for comfort that refuses her.
mood stabilizers have her body misfiring; temperature almost indiscernible, pulse tripping over itself as a living vexation throbs behind her eyes. the radio chatters— tinny zydeco swallowed by static that dissolves into a hiss resembling a breath. the radio is irritating. he is irritating.
civilization thins to rumour along grand point highway, tapering towards breaux bridge. the few structures they pass seem less inhabited than endured. even the telephone poles lean like penitents, as though the world has quietly stepped aside to let something older devour its dwindling populous.
“ we should pull off at the next exit. ” husked words tumbling out before her temper can cauterize them. it's the third town. the third hot day. the third hot day of this pilgrimage that neither of them will name. she huffs again as if to aid the expulsion of irritation as her fingers drag the pegman simultaneously with their route, mapping a pinching motion as she squints deeply at the screen.
outside, a billboard looms up from the swamp, its paint bleached into a corpse-pale grin. the face on it— once a woman offering pecan pralines— has weathered into something leering & eyeless [..] the arrow beneath her chin points nowhere now, the lettering peeled by time & climate.
the ramp descends, coiling into a narrower road; asphalt patched & blistered. the trees lean in (listening). the light changes— subtly, at first, then decisively from gold to a wan, etiolated pallor.
“ country charm bed and breakfast. sounds cute. cheap, too. ” phone locked with a click.
in the passenger window, her reflection briefly startles her. for a heartbeat, it isn't quite synchronized— her mouth a fraction slower, uncanny that is not synonymous with a reflection. then the image resolves, obedient again.
