And they're halfway there before she's disappointed that she's come with him. The highway stretches out before them, and the edges of the road are muddy and rocky, not green like she expected they might be. The snow has melted, if there ever was any; either way, it looks mucky.
He was moving to Colorado, he'd said, months ago. Would drive his truck in the springtime, when he figured it would make the trip without breaking down. Staying with friends, he said. You need company, she said. For the trip, she meant. Invited herself, really.
The snake is wedged between them in its aquarium. It wiggles, irritated, she imagines, that it's in a smaller glass box than usual. She, he reminds her. The boa is a she. She doesn't much care about the snake, only that he's cranked up the heat in the car so that the snake doesn't get cold, and it's about four thousand degrees in the car. Worse, they're on at least day two of the clothes they're wearing. Part of the adventure was to pack light, for her at least. She didn't expect a rain forest environment, however, and her clothes are sticky and, she thinks, they smell mushroomy and earthy, mostly in a bad way.
He'd cleaned the espresso machine while she swept the floor. And what are you doing when you get there, she'd asked, one of about a million questions that maybe he wanted not to answer. But he'd smiled the smile that got her, maybe just to be polite, the wide one that crinkled his blue eyes into little pokes in his face, slanty ones, and his cheeks drew up high, and she could see all his straight white teeth. He was twice as big as her, tall and wide through his shoulders, and when he smiled he was a sweet boy and not a nearly unemployed linebacker who read literature with a capital L and used words like pragmatic and pandemic, which intimidated the shit out of her. He was going to work in construction, he told her, he knew people that knew people. No ivory tower for him. Four years in an Ivy, and he just wanted to build with those big hands of his.
His hands on the steering wheel look like an adult's hands on a toy car, which might, she's thinking, be the best way to describe the situation, and the way the truck stays so perfectly centered in its lane scares her. He's control, perfection, a strong man who always knew what he wanted.
He's stopping soon, he says. Does she care where he stops, he asks. No, wherever is fine with her. It's all the same, rest stops and gas stations and coffee for her with too much stuff in it and tea for him, two bags and black. Maybe she'd try switching the coffee for the tea, she thinks but she can't say it outloud to this man who she's spent two days with in the cab of a half-red, half-rusty pick-up.
This is how it was supposed to go:
1. He is so grateful that she wants to accompany him across the country, in his truck, that he leaves behind the creepy snake.
2. He seduces her with his words; they talk about every single thing they have words for, and some that they don't. He is well-spoken and well-read; she is witty and amusing. They laugh and sometimes stop and look at each other with the knowledge that each is the only true mind-mate for the other.
3. Their conversation continues into the campground they've found, and even after they stop talking, their bodies continue to speak to one another, using friction and motion to stay warm on top of plastic on top of warm, muddy dirt. They come together, and there is no mess or awkward conversation afterwards. He holds her for just the right amount of time, and he doesn't smother her when she tries to sleep.
This is what really happens:
1. The creepy snake sits between them on the seat, pushed up next to her. It (she) stares at her like a wife stares down a mistress in polite company.
2. Conversation is short and polite. They have little in common, and they have even less to talk about.
3. At the first campground, they find out that the tent has a hole in the side. They drink a few beers around the fire he's made and don't say much, except to relate a few stories to each other about other times they've had a few beers, especially around other fires. When they finish, they retire to their own sleeping bags, where she is cold at night and sore in the morning from the hard, cold, uneven ground. He farts in his sleep, but she doesn't know him well enough to tease him about it when they wake up. The second night, the tent smells funny from the farting and, she thinks, from the condensation that had gotten inside the tent from the hole in the side, which they hadn't dried out before they balled up the tent and shoved it back into the truck the next morning.
They'd closed down the little cafe those months ago, and she knew: the mountains would be breathtaking, and the sky would be high and painted beautiful. He and she would end the trip best friends, at least, and lovers, she'd thought, watching him count out the money in the cash register. And he slammed the register shut when he was done, and she knew that meant that he thought that too.
When they get to Colorado, it's overcast and she slumps down in the seat, up against the snake, not caring what, if anything, the mountains look like. He introduces her to the friends that he's staying with, after he hugs them with heavy, genuine pats and smiles at them, wider than he smiles at her, even when she says something she's sure is clever. She helps them unload the truck, mostly by just sort of holding doors. The snake is almost the last thing in the truck, and for a minute it's just those two females out there together.
And she grabs her own bag from the floor of the truck, which has no clean clothes, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. There is a sweet rotten smell coming from the bag too, and under the watchful glare of the snake, she digs around until she comes up with an apple that has been sitting in the warm truck under her well-worn clothes, and the apple is now brown and squishy on more parts than not. She thinks about throwing the apple at the house he's in, but only for a second because the door opens, and he's coming up with the friend he's staying with. In one movement, she rolls the apple underneath the seats and pushes her hands under the snake's cage, lifting it out of the truck. Got it, her, she says, and carries the aquarium to the house.
What time is her flight, he wants to know, and she doesn't have one, so she lies and tells him that it's very soon. They better get in the car then, and he'll drive her, he says, and he smiles the beautiful smile, even if it is his polite one. Not needed, she says. She's made other arrangements, she tells him, and she lifts the bag she's brought off the ground near the truck. Thanks for the company, he says, and she smiles but doesn't say anything. When she walks away, down the street, he doesn't know that it's not towards the airport, and if he ever runs into her again, he doesn't recognize her.
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