Temporary Secretary

Part 81

11 December 1981
2:00pm Friday
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When you left that morning, it was in a hurry. Paul was determined to leave, and you weren't about to stop him.

You would be gone for a while, but packed quickly. A few changes of clothes for the both of you, notebooks, baby things, and other necessities.

Paul loaded the car as you dressed Rosemary to go. She had a proper winter coat, mittens, hat, making sure she'd be warm during the journey.

It would be a long drive. You held Rosemary in your lap.

It was silent in the car. There was an uneasy atmosphere with the way you left it, and you didn't have a lot to say to each other.

You left the city, and got onto the motorway heading North.

Paul's attention shifted, turning the radio on, fiddling with the channels.

It did well in filling the silence. You gazed out the window.

He had it set to a light station. The choices were a little slimmer out on the country road. It filled the silence.

Though, it seemed to ease what was between the two of you. Being driven always relaxed you, and the music seemed to also make Paul's mind loosen.

The consistent sound and rhythm of the car almost put you to sleep.

That was your sleep schedule as of late. The baby was sleeping, and that often meant you were.

It was cloudy out, though it didn't rain.

Paul's expression had relaxed, his fingers began to tap against the wheel unthinkingly.

"Honey," He said, deep voiced.

Your eyes flitted to him. He had taken on an old American dialect, another habit of his, his cowboy voice.

You mimicked it easily enough. Your dad's Californian accent, drawn out.

"Yea, sugar." You said.

His eyes then moved to you briefly, aloof expression.

"I saw you the other day. Saw you dancin'."

The light music lended itself, as if it were a radio show.

"Dancin' where, doll?" You said.

"Dancin' at the watering hole." He said. "You'had all the boys watchin'."

"Watching my hole?" You said, breaking the accent.

Paul broke off the act, snorting, but regained it quickly.

"Watchin' yer legs." He said, dialect intact. "Watchin' your legs, you was kicking them in the air."

You gave a lighthearted murmur. You were both gazing forward, though you glanced to him now and then.

"Was that it, duckie." You crooned. "Don't you know what happened, then?"

"Whad is'it, sugar."

"They got too close, Bunny. I kicked them in the gob."

Paul's eyebrows raised, his eyes fixed on the road.

"Gob's not western." He said.

It was a drastic change, hearing his real voice again.

You gazed upward, you took on the western voice.

"Knocked them in the kisser." You said.

Paul whistled.