Free Death Will Have Your Eyes by James Sallis

there was only blackness out there, blackness shot through from time to time with the lash of passing lights, broken by the dull thunder of trucks on the interstate a mile away.
    And behind, there was only more news, more detective shows and sitcoms, endless advertising, an interminable hour of sophomoric British comedy in tuxedos and drag.
    I slept well, dreaming of the countryside of southern France, its small caves and restaurants, its pâtés, oversize bottles of local wine, cassoulets, greens and rolling green hills. I was a leaf carried along by wind. Wind whispered softly to me and would never grow tired. Ma feuille, the wind said, ma petite feuille, ma jolie feuille …
    In the morning, no less surprised than I might have been upon receiving, by return post, a reply to a message in a bottle, or to words whispered into the darkness, I received a response to my telegram.
    â€œMr. Anderson?” the desk clerk said when I picked up the phone. He was probably also owner, maintenance man and half the housekeeping staff. “I’m sorry about disturbing you at such an early hour, but I have a telegram here for you.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou want me to read it?”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œOh. Okay. Let’s see…it says: I await you . And there’s something else here, a name maybe. K-U-B-L-A? That’s it. Be checking out this morning, will you?”
    â€œYes. Thanks again.”
    â€œOh no: thank you .”
    Ten minutes later, the Mazda pulled out behind me. We drove up the street like a very small circus and stopped at a truck stop for breakfast. Plenty of parking in front. This time he came in, sat at the counter and ordered coffee.

20
    I ate breakfast slowly and, afterwards, carried a second cup of coffee over to the counter and sat beside him. He was on his third or fourth, with milk and with sweetener from sky-blue packages. Where we were, you could see stacks of glasses in wire racks against the kitchen wall, a tottering tray of napkins rolled, burrito-like, around silverware, a badly encrusted waffle iron.
    â€œCome here often?”
    A lot younger than I would have thought—but aren’t they all?—and good-looking in some indefinably continental way; functionally dressed in loose jeans, sweater, ski jacket, running shoes. I wasn’t the only one who thought him good-looking. The waitress spent an inordinate amount of time seeing to his coffee.
    â€œCapricorn,” he said. “And no, I don’t want to dance.”
    We sat there a while. Truckers came in, made calls over coffee and burgers and left. Travelers whose children could be seen looming into the windows of vans outside like sharks in aquariums materialized at the counter and voyaged back out with cartons of food in hand.
    â€œSo what do we do next?” I said. “You supposed to smother me with a jelly doughnut?”
    â€œThought maybe I’d just persuade you to order the chili. That ought to do it.”
    â€œOr I could jot down my itinerary, we’d meet a couple of times a day for meals. Save you a lot of trouble. Easier for everybody, in the long run.”
    â€œHmmmm,” he said, and got more coffee from the waitress. Can’t let a good customer take two sips without a refill. He nodded to her and smiled.
    â€œWe could even consider carpooling,” I said. “I can’t remember if there’s an energy crisis right now, but if not, one’s bound to be along shortly.”
    He shook his head, half an inch in either direction, once. “Don’t think so. I’ve seen the way you drive.”
    â€œThere’s that. But you do have to look at the big picture.”
    He looked into his coffee instead and suggested a walk. I paid, waited as he spoke with the waitress, then we went out together into a chill, sunny morning. Sunlight on everything, just lying there, trying to get warm.
    We walked down the main stretch a block or two, then