The Crimson and Cold

First light. I'm parallel parked in some town somewhere. I am in a vehicle with the window ajar. The cold intrudes, advances, and engulfs. I watch as my breath creeps toward the dashboard and slips out the window.

Bits of my soul, I muse. 

A man approaches. I motion him in. He opens the door, sits beside me, and shuts it. He cups his woolen sheathed hands together, purses his cracked lips, blows into them, and rubs. I twist the key, the engine cranks. No ignition. I give it another go. And another.

Finally.

The engine starts. He gets to talking. We're off.

He's providing counsel like, "You should go back," "You need to change [this], [that], [and the other]," "You ought to see if..." 

His voice trails off—muffled by the drum of underinflated tires and the hum of wind blustering through my slightly rolled-down window. 

We drive through a neighborhood that reminds me of my late grandmother's. A patch of grass and dirt hemmed in by roads flanked with homes.

I mumble, "Only larger..."

I've interrupted his monologue. 

"Huh?" he says.

I ignore him.

I head west on the road just north of the square grass-and-dirt lot. We motor past single and double-wide homes to our right. An undulating blanket of fog obscures many of the residences. There's rope strung up. I can't make out what it's affixed to. It seems to hover in mid-air.

Strange. 

Taught as it may be, laundry hang dries, gently buffeted by the breeze—quivering and swaying. The hovering lines are thrumming. A few clothespins attached bounce around.

 

We make a left at the end of the block, down the western edge of the grass-and-dirt lot. There are houses to our right. Again, we turn left, now eastbound, on the lot's southern length. He just won't shut up. There are still more houses to our right. All of which are small, rectangular, unadorned, and utilitarian structures with either covered or shed-roofed porches. Some have attached garages. Others have no garage, and the road is their driveway. The road consists of broken asphalt and dirt, mostly dirt interspersed with asphalt. Weeds sprout through the cracked concrete slab; yellow dandelions contrast the blue and gray hues of the pervasive mist. Milk crates, worn-and-faded children's toys, and random junk litter the lot. Curious stares, arched & furrowed eyebrows. They know we're not from here. They can sense tension.

I can feel and hear the crackle and crunch of the loose asphalt and gravel beneath us as we slowly approach wherever it is we're going. 

I know. Here! 

I yank the wheel left, making a sharp turn, bringing the vehicle up and over the curb of the grass-and-dirt lot. The maneuver kicks up dust. I stop abruptly, with the rear bumper slightly obstructing the narrow drive. The bystanders look none too pleased with the commotion. Those driving past, westbound behind us, leer, as they scuttle along. The engine idles as I scan the lot; the grass is sparse. There's a swing set. Three swings. One seat is missing, one broken—dangling from a length of chain—and the other is awaiting a body.

A body. 

Rusted chains. 

Oh, these chains. 

A dome climber that is also rusted, with broken or missing bars.

I'm hunched with forearms resting atop the steering wheel. I look to my right. His mouth is moving—cascading comments, trembling lips. 

More filth. 

All I hear is the creak of the swaying swings, the grating of someone dragging a metal trash can across the asphalt off in the distance, and the sputtering of my idling vehicle's exhaust. I jam my hand into my jeans pocket and pull out my wallet, a crumpled receipt, tobacco shavings, my wedding ring, and a pocket knife. I set most of what's in my palm on the dash. I manipulate the little knife.

Manipulated. 

I ask, "How'd you get here?" 

He stammers, "Wha...huh...I uh, well, I walked?!" 

He's lying...

I shake my head and sneer. 

"No, you didn't. Where did you sleep last night?" 

Still stammering, "I was...what do you mean? I was with <ahem>, spoke with, uh, I was over there. That's why I thought I might..." 

I interject, "...advise me on how to attend to the needs of my wife? Who you've already been attending to the needs of yourself?" I continue, slowly and emphatically, "You slept there...with her." 

He shut up. I stropped the edge of the small knife I was fidgeting with by puncturing my leather car seat—finally, silence. Everything fades to black then back to white. I blink. He leaves, no, lurches, from the vehicle, staggering into the ashen morning mist. Crimson droplets on weathered leather. The musty smell after heavy rain. I wept. I woke never to weep again.