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Show 67 The driver drove with the headlights off. There was no need for them. White gravel crunched evenly beneath the wheels. "Lovers, that's a laugh. The last time we made love you might as well have been at a funeral." He reached for her face, he wasn't sure why. She moved, but not soon enough. "Your cheek is hot. Are you too warm. It's warm in here. I'll roll down a window." "No. " "Are you cold?" "No." The taxi slowed, turned off the gravel and away from the sea. From here it was twelve kilometers of barely perceptible ascent to Phira, the tiny port city perched above the harbor on the other side of the island. The road would be in bad shape, David knew that. When it was dry it was little more than a winding dirt path, when it rained it became a gummy river of mud. "It's going to be a mess," he said. "A real shitty mess." "I'm sorry." "It's not your fault." "I mean I'm sorry I said those things." "With this load on we're bound to have trouble." Low stone walls lined the road. Beyond them stretched tomato fields. If the road was a river of mud the fields were seas of the same and the stone walls, like dikes, kept one from the other. "It's just that I still don't understand why I'm leaving." |
