Roadtrip

The road softly reflects in the windshield against the uncrossing eyes of Dan and Cynthia, as the dusty scrub hills buffet the car. Cynthia’s stare was harsh and strained, her forehead holding her frustrations like a knot she could not break. Dan watched the passing signs.

In a different car, Dan drives alone, his dog curled on the passenger seat, and as he leaves the hills for the saline basin the sun departs and only the sodium glare of highway lights remain. Coming to the end of nameless dirt-road fork, Dan slows to a halt and lays his tear-wet face down against the wheel.

In the coldness barely warmed by the rising sun, Dan walks towards the empty horizon, his dog intentedly sniffing the trail he walks. The emptiness feels soothing.

Dan drives, for days, his path guided by the random intersections of freeways and the vague desire to be elsewhere.

Dan finds himself, hiking through knee-deep snow, himself and his dog foundered, and he wraps the dog up in his jacket and brings them both back to safety.

Winter begets Spring, and Spring opens up to the warm comfort of Summer.

Dan finds himself a little house, with a redwood tree right by the porch and a little coffeeshop across the way. He goes to the woods, every day, walking as his dog sniffs along their regular trail, and the two smell the earthy wet bark, and it reminds him of walks he used to take with his parents on holidays.