Blood smeared from sweaty palms to the steering wheel cover. Hot breath fogged their windows. Sweat dripped down the driver’s neck. From his wrist hung the Cellini Rolex. The neon gas lifted from pale cravesses and sharpened the tree branch notches. The moonlight swallowed the stars. Strobing digits strained on their dashboard. The windows flashed the blinking red and yellow bots. Cold air blew from the vents, but the seats felt cozy. Constantia cuddled into its fuzz, and watched winged insects from the dark pop against the windshield. She nestled deeper, wove her fingers into the leather tassels, smoothing them out until she found the saltires of polyester fascened the threads.
“Not now, So close, wait!-” A cry crawled from the back of his throat.
Constantia let her eyes focus on the frothing orange foaming from his nostrils. She took the wheel from him. Police pointed orange clubs down a gravel road. Sirens and flashes crossed the highway and followed them. When the city opens, its gateways glimmer like livid portals. The cloud of light pollution hung over like the soft tail of a mother fox.
The car cut in and out of the lane. His boots convulsed against the pedals, and he reached down his throat to pry it open. She felt the cold air sink in her scalp. The window air howled through a narrow gap. Her oxford slammed on his feet, and pressed them and pulled the slowing vehicle to the rumble strips.
He opened the door, vomited, then wiped sweat from his ear, and pressed his nose bridge until a weak mumble echoed. With the throbbing veins turned green in his eyes, and the curled hook of a starving root reaching from his nose, he asked her to kiss him goodbye. She begged him not to go, but he vaulted into the night mist. She saw his shadow reappear. The police shadows ignited from gunfire. Pieces of vegetable pulp splattered in the moonlight. In the white pumps of exhausting smoke she saw the row of armored trucks.
The burning tasted of salt, and melted alloy. She saw the idol against the gasping flames Glass melted on the parking lot. Machines inside blew and bellowed into the night under fountain of sparks. The trees and grass nearby steamed as fire trucks plowed through dust. The water streams screamed as they touched the fire, and evaporated to screen whisps.
The Corvette alongside their car.
“He’s right behind us- we can’t stop- we can't wait- it’s behind us,” the lady driving demanded of her. She touched her lips, and already they toughened, chapped to matter how much saliva she produced, and each time her tongue lashed them she tasted meagre gourds of a forsaken pumpkin patch.
In the glowing gas she saw the one merrymaking cucurbita pause its covorting tangles of vines to steal a glance before rejoining in the great frolic of its brethren.
Constantia reached from her lips to her nose. She felt each dent from the six incidents. Each one still ached from before. She avoided eye contact, and embraced the pain with each hurt comforting her suspicion that the poison gas of the Samhain pastures didn’t cause tears to sting her eyelids, but dust from the passing cars. Her nose stuffed up, but it always did this season. Fatigue drained her body of strength, but the stress of leaving her home did not come cheap. Her lymph nodes hurt. She licked the cracks on her lips. Maybe a cold from missing so much sleep.
She stepped inside of the Corvette. The driver pulled back on the highway. She rubbed fine cuts on her leg. Dark droplets rode down her ankles, and when she pulled them to the light, green blood dripped.
Constantia rolled her eyes, and assured and reassured her, but both knew already where they were. She curled up, and thought about the burning smell in the air. They crossed a sign, and each printed character shaved another layer from her heart. She knew the smell exactly. She’d been here before.
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