Cinnamon, Blueberries, & Other Subjects to fill a Book of Poetry

Chapter 2: Sheep

I almost didn't notice the tow truck when it pulled up behind me. Funny how that works, how you can worry and worry and worry until your head explodes and you still manage to get caught off guard. I let myself worry, just for a second, about what would have happened if it was a stranger who happened to pull up behind me, who had caught me unaware and vulnerable, long legs draped over the hood and arms occupied with writing and writing and writing. I worried about what would happen if someone had seen me, here, like this, and decided they wanted to- I cut myself off there, filling my head with poetry and music and articles that I'd already written or articles that needed to be written and just any other thought that I could muster up.

That seemed to work. It almost always works.

Almost.

I slide off the hood, quite pleased with myself for staying on my feet and not ending up as a mess on the floor. I had a habit of ending up on the floor, accursed long legs and whatnot. I watched the driver hook everything up without a word and it made my skin crawl. We weren't particularly far from town, far enough to give me blisters that'd last if I walked it, but close enough that I'd assumed I'd recognize whoever they sent out to help me. I wasn't overly social, but if you grow up in a small town it's incredibly difficult to go through life without learning everyone's names, faces, great grandparents, and what they intend to name their first born child. I went to school with most of the people here, even if I left for college and they stayed here, so it always sent an odd sort of feeling through my head when I saw someone who's face I'd never seen before or heard a name I couldn't connect to at least 3 classmates and a co-worker.

As I hauled myself into the truck beside this stranger it suddenly dawned on me how odd that mentality was, how growing up in such a small town made you a bit like a sheep who thinks its flock and its pasture are the only things to exist in this world. Blissfully ignorant to everything outside the fence posts. Ignorant to the wolves just beyond the woods. I thought about how that made people lazy and disinterested and overly trusting, although I am one to talk considering I'm letting my mind wander away from me while I sit next to a stranger who could very well be a murderer. Then I start to worry about that. I cross my ankles and consciously bring my thoughts back to the sheep analogy. Then I worried. Then I thought. Then I worried. I toyed with that thought some more, turning it over and over in my head until it was a smooth sphere. An idea. A good one, I think. The worry isn't far behind, but I make myself focus on the thought. The idea. I wonder if it would make a good poem. I wonder if Jean would let me write an article on it. 'Small Town Sheep.' I think she might. I hold onto that thought for a minute, it makes me happy, but it's not practical. I know she wouldn't. Small town thinking, I think.

Then I laugh because Jean isn't even from the town and she's probably as closed minded as they come. I wonder if she was born that way or if she adapted to fit in. I think about that some more, about all the things I know about her and about all the things I don't. Then I move onto thinking about my co-workers. My job. Writing in general. I let my thoughts go down the rabbit hole, because I don't worry when I think. I apparently don't hear much either because the driver's glancing over at me like he's expecting something and I immediately worry that I didn't hear what he said.

"Sorry, could you repeat that?" He sort of laughs, it's not a bad sound, and he looks less intimidating now that I'm not so worried. He's not bad looking. Not even very scary.

"I asked if you knew where you're going."

"What? Why?" I frown, my voice coming out a bit more squeaky than I'd care for it to be. I'm vaguely aware that I sort of sound like Fran. This guy makes me feel small, which is a feat, actually, because I'm rather tall. I'm not very broad though, like guys should be, I think, I'm all legs and hips. I think maybe I'd have a few inches on him if we were standing, but even then he's big in a way I'm not. He takes up space too, I notice, even when he talks. His words take up room. I'm not used to that, nobody in this town takes up much room. He looks over at me looking at him and I'm not sure if I should look away or maintain eye contact. I choose eye contact, since I think it's the polite thing to do even if you've just been caught staring, but he looks away.

I think about that.

"You just look lost." He offered up simply, like it was clear as day, "I would have given you directions." I continue to stare at him, I've done so this long and now I don't see the point in pretending I wasn't and politely looking out the window,

"Oh.. Well, thank you. I know this town well though. Always have. I grew up here, still live and work here too." A worry in the back of my head nags at me about sharing anything with strangers, but I can't seem to help myself. I've never been very good at holding back. He glances over at me, but won't hold my stare for very long. I think about that. I want to ask him. Jean says I'm too nosy, she's always telling me that it's not polite to ask people questions I don't need the answer to. It's not my fault I always need the answer. I think maybe I should listen to her.

I'm not good at listening. I apologise to her in my head even though I know she can't hear me, but before I can ask him anything we're pulling into the auto shop. Has it really been that long already? I think about how time passes. I think about how I probably spent the whole time staring at him. I feel my face heat up. I'm snapped out of that thought,

"Me too." Was all he said and it took me a minute to realise he was responding to my bout of over-sharing.

"Really? How come I've never seen you before?" I asked, turning my whole body to face him, one of my legs folding up on the seat. He quirks an eyebrow at me and the corner of his lip twitches and it's a look I know well, it's the look that means I asked a question that crosses some unspoken line. It's a look that's gotten me in trouble before. I don't expect an answer, but he answers. I make a mental note to think about that later.

"I grew up on the East side." This day has been full of surprises and I can't exactly say I'm opposed to that. However, he answered and now all I have are more questions. Such is my mantle to wear, I think, as a journalist. I think he's just making small talk and maybe I should let sleeping dogs lie, but I don't.

"I didn't realise anyone lived on the East side. I thought it was a shopping district."

"It is." He looks me over and I'm not entirely sure what he's looking for, but I stop my leg bouncing as best I can and let him, I think about why. "There's apartments." I think I might remember that now. For something I wanted to write that Jean shot down, something to do with a feud and land ownership and a Baron's son, I think, and a street that nobody could touch. I think about what it might have been like to live there. I wonder if he still went to my school. I wonder why I don't know him. I can feel my leg practically vibrating as the questions pop into my mind. I don't notice I'd floated off with my own mind until his hand is on my knee, steadying it, and I think about how noone has ever done that.I can't tell if it makes me nervous or gratefully. Maybe a bit of both. He gives me that look I know, but then the corner of his mouth twitches and he's got what one might consider a punch-able smile, "Not that you need one, but how about a coffee?"

I think that smile might suit him. I also think Jean would tell me not to accept.

I accept.