BEARCAT
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
He waited for the light to change. The street wavered around the hood of his car, heat rising from them both. His jaw was sore. Tension thread itself down his neck and across his shoulders.
He’d said “so-long.” A man made his choice.
The red disappeared and green popped out from another hole.
Fine, and nobody could say she ran him.
She knew her onions all right. World wasn’t made for girls like that—and they get plenty screwy when they’re bearcats. She couldn’t save him and she wouldn’t mind him. God, she would never do.
What was she after?
He’d met her after a pile of wrong turns and detours. Of course, her. And he knew he’d have to say it at some point but he wasn’t ready for that, or for anything.
She cut the words so he gassed it.
She was done for. Not for her to say. No matter if she gave in, or if she never did. The ending would always be his to decide.
Even the drive remained a crude game board, the city planner some kind of puzzle enthusiast. More barricades and blocked roads than ever. Of course she’d remain there, content in her labyrinth.
The road assembled itself as he traveled.
A man has needs.
She would always be home.