by V. Z. Marcus

Created on: September 21, 2009   Last Updated: September 22, 2009

The window was exactly two feet by two feet. A black pole with a terribly torn American flag stood like a villain in the upper right hand corner, and perhaps three hundred vehicles or more all parked too close to one another beneath. In the bottom, I saw the blue eggs of a mother robin hidden in a rustling nest held up by the waxing growth of shrub surrounding the restaurant. My lemonade was bitter and the sun was at noon, with despotic drops of acid rain and serotonin falling from heaven, and perhaps onto the apartment I had left in the city. I folded the thin placemat into a paper airplane and considered throwing it at the waitress to get her attention. I didn't fancy the scraps of veil and peppercorn left wriggling on my plate and it was all making me rather nauseous. The tiny window to my left was becoming more and more like a melancholic painting then the still life it had transformed into while I was eating. I didn't recall seeing a single person the whole hour.

The waitress came to my side and paused for a short time before asking if the meal had satisfied me. I smiled and nodded, which appeared more like the word no, then my approval. She smiled back and slid the bill under a plate covered in warm syrup. I glanced at it sitting down next to my cell phone and reached for the jean jacket beside me. I made sure the letter was still in the right pocket and peeked into the breast to find my cigarettes. The price was too high to leave a tip. I rocketed to the cashier and then out into the open air, instantly beginning to sweat and worry about the weather. A cane unleashed ahead of me, and submitted to my grasp; slapping and grinding against the cracking pavement. It took the abuse like a brainwashed prisoner. I reached for my keys and inserted them into a middle aged truck, which was only rusted in places no one could see. It was scarlet with a solid white line running parallel to the ground and the entire length of the body. Inside, there were old newspaper clippings and empty bottles of grapefruit juice. I tossed the cane into the bed and roared the engine, leaving massive ugly tire tracks upon my exit to the freeway.

A thick cloud of dust appeared in my rearview mirror and I knew where I was headed. There was an indication of it on the map sitting next to me, which I would glance at from time to time, making certain the roads did not deceive me. I was leaving for the last time and had no plans on returning. Instead, I lavished the freedom the road provided

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