By three or four am, even the partiers who had been out
racing cars and motorcycles late into the night, fueled on alcohol and
testosterone, are finally home in bed. The screams of engines, no longer
suspended and vibrating in the air, now settled to the ground like dust on Tom
Joad’s floor. Trucks fat with produce stand idle in their stalls, ready to run
from their warehouses, delivering fresh produce throughout the area. Right now
though, they wait silently, sleeping for another hour or two before, they begin
the circuit.
No more road sounds or overhead flights suggest life beyond
the security blankets pulled neck high. Only the pulse of my own engine beats
in my ears, low and slow, a methodical drum.
Darkness and silence are cave-like
in their collusion.
Dreams begin to slip away like water from the garden hose
after the bib is shut,
Starting to stir, I start to lust for my quiet time. Black
coffee, with no interruption from the world.
But there is something else more immediate, urgent. I feel
her breath on my face. Without moving, I open one eye, blinking into the coal
black, testing the water, a child’s first steps. Immediately the metronome
begins, the accelerating whip of her tail against my chest.
She doesn’t care if it’s 3AM or 3PM, if I’m awake, she’s
ready to go.
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