Free Lit Riffs by Matthew Miele Page B

recognized lots of places these days. Half the people in that restaurant of yours were whispering the minute I walked in. That’s some of why I figured you wanted to come with me. A little touch of fame. That’s why I picked you—seemed like you needed something special to happen.
    Meg stops chewing and puts the sandwich down. The magic of the evening rushes away from her. What do you mean? she says, but thinks she knows—she just wants to hear him say it.
    It’s nothing against you, sweetheart, he says. Never mind. Eat your sandwich and then we’ll dance.
    I have to work tonight, Meg says. I have to get back.
    He scowls. I said eat up. For chrissake. He takes a toothpick from the tray and leans back to clean his teeth. Most girls would kill to be in your place. It’s the least you could do, considering.
    She takes another bite, but the flavor has gone. He had not recognized her as the stranger he was waiting for. He had not fallen prey to a dream, as she had. He took pity on her. He brought her along to flatter himself.
    She pushes the fish away. I don’t want any more, she says. I’m not hungry.

    They do not dance.
    When he has finished his sandwich, and what is left of hers, he gets himself another beer and sits there, not looking at her. Finally he rises and she follows him to the truck.
    For the first few miles they are silent. The sky has started to pink, tendrils of color leap up and across the horizon. The land is stark and lush at the same time. Empty and full of life.
    Meg presses her cheek against the cool glass and watches the fields pass. She is not sorry she got in the truck or drove all night, but she does not like this silence or the emptiness that accompanies it. It is different from the bouts of silence they shared on the way down. Those belonged to both of them. Now they each have their own.
    She thinks of her brothers asleep on the floor in front of the television, no one to put them to bed. Their limbs will be tangled, their cheeks flushed, the dark circles under their eyes softened by their dreams. She can almost smell them, feel their weight as she carries first one, then the other up to bed. But she will not be there to do that tonight. Tonight they are on their own.
    She rubs her temples with the tips of her fingers. You didn’t need to do me a favor, she says softly. You don’t know me. My life isn’t something you needed to rescue me from.
    He stares straight ahead, but his mouth twitches.
    What makes you think you have that kind of power, anyway?
    He doesn’t answer. Meg loosens her seat belt and pulls her legs up under her and for a while they watch the sun come up.

    Sorry, he says a while later in the full light of day.
    What?
    Sorry. About before.
    Oh.
    Aren’t you going to say thank you?
    You sure do have a lot of ideas about what I should do, Meg says, and that hushes him for a while.
    Well, anyway, he says a little later. I am. Sorry, I mean. I just thought you looked different in there. Like you might want to have an adventure.
    So you thought you’d do me a favor. Drive me all the hell across the state for some fish?
    You sure are prickly all of a sudden. I didn’t see you complaining before.
    She bites her lip, but doesn’t feel like explaining what she thought would happen: that he had come to rescue her, to hand over his heart, cracked open. She had no reason to believe this beyond the shaking and the way she couldn’t catch her breath when he’d sat down, when he’d touched her. Surely that wasn’t his fault.
    The trees have moved closer, but still there are places where they can see the red clay hills. She tucks her hair behind her ears and catches a whiff of the catfish. It was real good though, she says. The fish. Thank you.
    He glances over and squints. You making fun?
    No. She exhales. No, I mean it.
    You do?
    Yes.
    It is the best I’ve ever had, he says. But I don’t know why I brought you there. I’ve never brought anyone before, least of all a stranger.