Page 15 of Catching Sparks

“Twenty-two. Why?”

“Just curious.”

He has a sense of life that has long since been lost on me. An optimism that comes from never experiencing hardships that knock you down to your knees and keep you there every time you attempt to push back to your feet.

I look out the window and stare at the hint of a two-story farmhouse far out past the pasture, a massive garage at its side. A red car is parked out front, but we’re too far to notice much else.

“Okay then. How old are you?” he asks.

“Thirty.”

“No wonder you’re complaining about a rash. You must get them often in your old age.”

My laugh is unexpected. It fills the cab of the truck before the wind carries it out the window. “I’m not much older than you.”

“Eight years is a long fucking time.”

“You say that because you’re young. Time catches up to you quick.”

“I guess it’s a good thing you’re gonna be stuck here for a while. Might as well drop your little golden eggs of knowledge into my hands.”

I sober up at the reminder of being stuck here. Two months is a long, long time to be away from both my company and my mother.

“You don’t want the knowledge I would give.”

“Too bitter?”

“I suppose so.”

“Oh well. I’m still up to hear it one of these days.”

“I don’t plan on making friends while I’m here,” I say bluntly.

He doesn’t sound offended when he asks, “Why not?”

“Friends are a distraction. And I don’t plan on staying here longer than I have to.”

“Staying here with no one to talk to sounds lonely.”

“Are you trying to volunteer yourself as a friend or something?”

He laughs again, this time while we pull off the gravel onto the lawn in front of the main house. My rental car is still here, filthy beyond belief.

“Maybe. Why not?”

I pull my arm back into the truck before cranking the window back up and scratching at my throat. My first instinct is to tell him to piss off. That it would be more of a bother than anything else. But I don’t have it in me to do that. Not at this moment.

“Fine. But you won’t get much from the friendship.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Opening the door, I mutter, “Guess so.”

“Ask Eliza for some lotion and an allergy pill. The woman keeps just about everything in her first aid kit,” he says when I step out of the truck and go to shut the door.

“Thanks.”

I head toward the house, not bothering to see if he’s taking or leaving the truck. Now that I’m here, I’d prefer to drive back to the guest house in my rental.

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