Three Micros
by C.C. Russell
3rd Super 8
It was the third cheap hotel of the trip when Jason told me that it would be the last - his last time with me like this.
If I’m being honest, it was how he had said it, the face accompanying the words, that made me realize I had already come to the same conclusion a few hundred miles earlier. I don’t remember his exact phrasing, but it was one of those It’s-not-you-it’s-me or we-shouldn’t-be-doing-this sort of speeches. You know the type; rehearsed and dryer than overcooked turkey. Manufactured drama. I nodded as he droned on, thought of various replies; bit them all back one by one. I kept my mouth shut. I kept my eyes focused on his sky blue dress shirt, all of the wrinkles from the road still in place, that truck stop burger grease stain by the top button. I watched his collar bob and weave from the pressure in his throat as he swallowed.
Later, I watched him climb into the shower - those sculpted lines and shadows across his back that I was surprised to see that first time, that glistening skin that had become so familiar by now. I watched until the curtain closed then grabbed his car keys, blew a kiss towards the sound of that falling water and stepped out into new snowflakes. My suitcase was still open across the bed, crammed with outfits I had packed to wear specifically for him but I didn’t need them now. I was heading towards the road – I was already so far away.
All of the people we pull along with us
I have a dream about you. It’s like this: I’m in your city for a conference of some kind or other. We meet afterwards, have a drink. A couple. A few. I am going to meet your husband for the first time. I ask, over the rising volume of the bar, why you haven’t been returning my emails and you laugh like you haven’t understood. Or like what I said was hilarious. And maybe it’s both.
We rise up from the bar, you say you want to show me something first and we walk. Down dark streets that remind me somehow of the town where I grew up, we walk. Turns out you are taking me first to meet the man that you are, for now, calling your boyfriend. We knock on his door and he answers, and in a polite sort of confusion lets us in. He shakes my hand, smiles and God, he’s gorgeous. Tall, dark, chiseled – an Adonis if I’ve ever seen one. This jawline makes even me swoon. He has a lovely home and I tell him as much as I admire his bookshelves. As I try not to admire him. The two of you are speaking in a fiercely muted sort of whisper. I’m sure that he’s as confused as I am with why we are there, how much I know. Why the three of us are sharing this.\
We go to leave and you lean up to kiss him quickly on the lips. He looks stunned as we walk down his steps. I am wondering if this move was to show a sort of ownership, to make me jealous, or…
Yes, you say, probably all of that. Probably a little of everything. And you smile in a way that erases it all for a second.
He follows us down his steps at a distance, unsure of how to say goodbye. Over my shoulder, I tell him that it was nice to meet him.He
We reach the sidewalk. I take your hand and we run. I slide my fingers between yours and we run. Like children. We run. Breathing so damned hard, we run.
EXHAUSTION
By the third day, the faintest sound would wake us fully, immediately. We were that ready, that wired. Even those of us that had been heavy sleepers, those that had been used to hitting the snooze button several times each morning. Even those would be alert, hand on whatever weapon they had scrounged. It was this that was finally, fatally wearing us down. This constant waking. These echoes of adrenaline. We had begun to look at each other in a bitter and hungry sort of way, to walk just a little further from one another. I heard one woman praying under her breath. She was asking for rest, for a true rest for once. I heard the man behind her tell her that her prayers were going to be answered real quick if she didn’t catch up to those ahead of her. No one said anything to him. Someone nodded. By then, we were no longer stopping to eat. That, like everything, had to be done on our feet. There was no longer any time.
BIO: C.C. Russell lives in Wyoming with his family and some rescued cats. He has been published in a variety of places online and in print such as The Best Microfiction series, The Colorado Review, and Split Lip Magazine among others. More of his work can be found at ccrussell.net