At Least They're Committed

The drive was amazing and the truck was a trooper. Eight hours = four hours to Grand Junction; four hours home. Precious time all alone to listen to my music, stare at the white stripes of the road in the nighttime and the dried-up countryside during the day. Eight hours — divided into two days — of limbo. Eight hours of sanctuary.

Well, almost.

On Interstate 70, a mile or two past the Grand Mesa exit that leads to quaint Collbran, Vega Reservoir and the Powderhorn ski area, he popped in, pushing the large, neatly wrapped gift already seated there to his left to squeeze into the passenger seat. He grumbled, but, hey, I’d wanted to be alone so had to bite back a smile.

“You wanted to talk about Summer Breeze?” he said, adjusting the gift onto his lap.

“I just wanted Summer Breeze, that’s all,” I sigh. “I want to be the woman in Summer Breeze. It’s not fair.”

“What do you mean?” his long fingers are fluffing the green bow atop the box.

“‘I come home from a hard day’s work and you’re waiting there, not a care in the world.’ That’s what I want. I deserve that.”

“Of cooooaarse you do.”

“Yup. I don’t even want or need the man in there, just maybe once in a while, like I’d make dinner, share wine and conversation and, um, de-stress.”

He laughs at that and I giggle. “Otherwise,” I continue, “I’m good alone, smiling in the kitchen, food cooking, table set for a one.”

“Maybe you’ll live long enough to get there,” he says.

“Ew!” Dexter swerved slightly as I turned and glared at Gabriel. “Then I’ll be old. I don’t want to be old.”

His upper lip curled in a half-smile, half snarl. This is the point where one typically says, “It’s better than the alternative,” but we both know differently so instead he said, “And what would you do with all this time on your hands?”

“Yard work,” I snapped back. “Oh, and I’d write. I’d probably even want to write. I’d win the Newberry Award and I’d just be happy that people enjoyed and learned from my books.” I sighed and wistfully, mockingly cocked my head.

“Ah,” he says. We were coming to the short tunnel between De Beque and Rifle. As we headed into the darkness, he scoffed, “You’d be bored shitless and you know it.” When I came out the other side, he was gone. Which is fine because he’s probably right.

I shake my head. Make that 7 hours and 55 minutes of blissful time alone.