Eskota

And she had asked in that casual way of hers if he knew Texas.  And he had stopped, there in the copper-colored dusk, and said he did.

No, she shook her head as the words tumbled out.  I don’t think so.  I don’t think you’ve seen the low moon.  I don’t think you’ve woken up to stand in an evening with enough stars to make you feel small.  I don’t think you know Texas at all.

He watched the fence line disappear down the horizon, a black line cutting a fine swatch against the field.  The road shimmered in slight waves in the distance, and he could just barely detect the faint soap smell of her. 

What am I supposed to know, then?  Is this a place?  Is this some sort of fucking attitude?  Can I learn it if I wasn’t born here in some sort of sacred ritual?  He walked the short space between them, her one arm across her holding the elbow, a slight cross against her chest. 

What do you see in me? she asked. 

I see everything.  I see blank canvass, I see unknowns.  I see an ocean that I would gladly drown in.  I see a storm that never goes away. I see a world on fire.

He reached out and held the tips of her finger.

 I see something no language would adequately describe.  I see you. 

She stared, a few blinks.  I am as much a part of this place as…trailing off she waved her hand across the expanse.  I’m as much a part of this place as anything.  I am the smell of salt air in Galveston, and as dry as the river bottoms near El Paso.  I am open, unending.  You cannot just simply try to contain me.

I’m not trying to contain you. 

You’re trying to shape me though.  Into something that you want.  It’d be like catching rain.

It was growing purple in the air, the evening tinted and tattooed with dark spots.  A little bit of orange remained, burnishing the edge of the flat horizon. 

Do you know how they make honey? He asked.  She turned her head to him.  He could barely see the colors of her eyes, dark against dark.  But he knew she was looking at him.

Honey?  You mean like bees?

Yeah, exactly.  You take this perfectly shaped…structure.  This work of art almost.  And you tear it in half, you crush it and you extract the honey from it.  It’s only sweet when it’s broken.

Is that what needs to happen?  She approached him and he could see her eyes much better now.  And there was a hint of storm in them.  I need to break to be better? 

Not you.  Us.  If I can’t be the other part of you, then maybe I need to be broken off.  Ruptured.

She was silent and her silence was darker.  It was almost pitch-black in the air but he could feel it heavy against him.  It was like the moments between lightning and thunder.

I don’t know if that is what I want.  I only know what I am here, what I have here.

He inhaled the cool air and watched her disappear.  She had never really been there, rather, he remembered the last time they had spoken.  He remembered how she had left, the contrail of her departure.  He still came out here now and again, turning off the road and stopping in the flat low land.  He remembered how he had tried, and in trying he remembered how she had pulled away.  How ultimately they had broken, and how it never was sweet at all.  In fact, it was exactly the opposite.