Driving behind people was hellishly boring. Hellishly tedious. They mean the same thing don’t they? Also mind boggling. Why did she go left instead of right? She would have cut 10 minutes of an already deathly dull journey. She was over doing it. Romo sat playing a rubix cube in the passenger seat. A hello kitty rubix; the toxic blight of our generation on a box.
“Why are we doing this again? It’s your guilt isn’t it?” he had got one side completed.
“I want to make sure he wriggles out of this one. Will you put that down?” He smacked the cute monstrosity out of his brother’s hands. “But yes.”
“I was enjoying that,” Romo sulked like a champion. He never let Rafa off the hook, “I thought you said you hadn’t done anything.”
“Don’t tell me you’re developing a conscience.”
“More of a moral compass.” His brother smirked.
“The way I see it they’re not mutually exclusive.” Rafa never understood his brother.
“How can you never have a need for a companion.” He glanced across the intersection to the first of the hotels gearing up for night lights that would later radiate through the desert. “I get tired of listening to myself talk.”
“You could try and cut down on the talking.” He had got to the rubix cube again, after an arduous task of searching under the seat. “What do you keep under here?” He began finding the unmentionables, much more suspect than the dollar bills that drifted from the driver’s pocket. “Your talking is like crack to a Glaswegian. Bread to butter. Whiskey to an Irishman.”
“Enough with the fucking cheesy analogies! She’s slowing down.” The pink Cadillac ahead of them veered slyly toward an apparently deserted rail yard. Rafa jolted his rusty, smouldering Ford Escort to a standstill, “anyway, how is having company a detriment to self-growth and development. Lucy Wright reckons that you need to communicate…”
“Oh shut up! All you ever talk is self-help! Fuck… will you move your arm! I can’t see a thing.” His binoculars stuck out as far as his nose, his eyes looked like they get a part in Alien. Rafa began to whistle. Gloomy Sunday he thought. Why did matter. It just did. Loki was committing suicide. That doesn’t give you a right to serenade him with Gloomy Sunday. “When we use the phrase ‘everyone I get close to ends up dead’ it much less of a cliché.” He glanced across at his sun tinted brother, “I mean it’s an occupational hazard. Ahhh! I can’t stop the cliché.”
Rafa nodded at the tracks. “She shouldn’t torment herself like this.” He stared aimlessly at the pair lying on the tracks like some mildly irritating litter on the side walk, “He’ll just leave, I know him. he won’t even say goodbye. He’ll probably steal the car. I like the company,” the yellow of his shirt turned in the sunset stole his attention for a moment; Romo had gone back to the fucking rubix cube, “Just because I’m not a holocaust loving recluse doesn’t make me a freak.” The tracks were hauntingly empty, “Is it just me or did sis and Loki just drive….”
The world began to fade in and out in twirl of vertigo. In and out. He hated this aspect of shadow play. Black and white. He would surely vomit this time. In and out. Third time unlucky, he thought. With that he dismissed the faint warring of a car streaming ahead, painting the windshield with a whiskey orange. Not unlike the sunset.
Created: Aug 16, 2012Harv.Au Document Media