We spent our last three bucks on a tallboy that we passed back and forth through most of Iowa. Twenty-four hours we'd been driving, away from the sick and the sirens and the smell of the dead in the streets. Truckers honked around us, past us. We waved to the cute ones, hiked our skirts higher on our pale thighs. We were down to warm suds when the needle scraped "E" and we pulled into a Mom and Pop station at the next exit. We sat on the curb out front and discussed what we were willing to do for a gallon or two—steal? sell ourselves?—and laughed until our pants were damp. The owner called us Sweetheart and gave us coffee and a couple of stale doughnuts before he shut off the lights and headed home. I'd never seen so many stars. Sitting there like that, I was sure I could feel the earth turn but you said no, it was probably the grumble of trucks on the interstate. Still it was nice to think we were moving forward, away from ourselves, even while we were stuck.
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Detail of art on main page courtesy of Kevin Dooley.





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