I park at the edge of an unfinished bridge that overlooks the bay, a place of orange cones and construction signs and blinking yellow lights. The end of the road is piles of dirt and jagged shadows, twisted rhubarb and the howl of the wind. A few hundred feet below the waters slosh dark and sullen beneath a sickle moon.
The shell of my Camaro is warm and as I lean against it and light a cigarrette the breeze plays across my face and steals the smoke away. I'm truly alone, though I'd bet if a photographer had been around I could have won a cameo in a film like 2012 or Mad Max.
Imagine that.
As the cherry hits the filter I drop it, crush it between my tired old shoe and the shattered asphalt. I don't want to burn anything down, not that there's anything out here that I could.
Keys in paw, hackles up, the car a silent hulk. I catch my reflection in the windshield and I'm sort of amazed someone so common could have come so far even if no one will ever know what that even means. The long scar is ugly as ever. There's solace in revenge, though it never heals.
Ah well. Long stories never told.