The Book of Strings

3

The drive along the interstate from Tucson to Phoenix is a surreal experience. From the beginning to the end, there are no turns or bends in the road. Early morning proved to be nearly desolate in regards to traffic. The highway was kaleidoscopic with premature employees and insomniacs, tail lights and floodlights -- a collage of life. The stretch of asphalt was the closest element to a portal I'd ever encountered. The horizon was always just out of reach, the desert spotted with a plethora of ignes fatui.

When October moved here, the first Arizonian attributes to catch her attention were the mirages. She called them wisps. I'd taken a good chunk out of my day to explain to her that they weren't substantial; they were figments of illusion and heat. She explained to me her theory.

Wisps were neither substantial or intangible. They were, by her definition, trapped in a sort of purgatory between the two. Almost an urban legend. But no, I told her, it's called a mirage, and they've been scientifically proven to exist only in hot, dry environments and to those under the influence of psychedelics. She told me I was a tight ass.

When the skyline of Phoenix was in sight on the horizon, I knew it wasn't a mirage. It was the city, real and malevolent in its five o'clock attire. The limbs that were towers touched the clouds, accented by a backdrop of mountains. The city appeared diminutive in contrast, and even more diminutive at that was Kip's red Volkswagen van.

Kip drove. No one was allowed to drive his van besides himself. An extra surprise added to the night was the presence of Lia, Kip's girlfriend since middle school. The two were disgustingly affectionate. At every pit stop, their lips found each other. I considered it to be moderately annoying, maybe bordering on enviable. October, on the other hand, threw shoes at every kiss. Affection irked her, but she had no problem with it herself. She lay across the beanbags in the backseat with her head in my lap. It crossed my mind that this was the most physical contact I'd had with her since sophomore year. The thought made me tense and I shook her off. Slightly disgruntled, she approached the eight track in the front seat. The disembodied voice of Bob Marley vibrated throughout the padded walls of the van that was more of a house than a vehicle. October leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

She had never been unattractive. At eighteen years old, she carried the sophistication of a woman twice her age. Her hair was a comfortable light brown, almost blond, and it just touched her chin as it fell past her softened skin. I hated when she closed her eyes, and I hated when they looked into mine. It created the illusion that she had caught me doing something I wasn't supposed to, that I held a secret that damaged her, even if I was unaware of what that secret could be. She didn't try to create this sense of culpability, this sense of guilt, but I'd never once brought myself to call her bluff.

As she closed her eyes, the first light of the day kissed her forehead.