Work Text:
You won’t ever tell me your name, a brown woman. Maybe black or Mexican, but when he spoke Spanish to her, she only laughed and hid her crooked teeth behind her hand as though she didn’t understand or his southern drawl was too thick to pull legible words from out of.
It won’t help you none, said the man. His hair was bleached from the sun. He sat freshly shaven, legs crossed on the unpaved floor of the cottage. He looked up to meet the woman’s eyes but the room was dim, the scent of mildew heavy from the summer’s rain.
You’ll find me if you need me.
That’s no answer, she said as she watched a kettle burn in the dim afternoon. She glanced over at a case full of four bottles of wine but did not ask where it came from or where it would go. Two bottles were empty. If you won’t tell me your name, you should go. I don’t have time for games.
He scoffed. The man wasn’t much for laughter or play, but his feathers were ruffled, like a startled hen or ovulating beast— what did she know of games? Mere sticks in the dirt of her youth, her hands were fragile, they touched him gently.
He shook his head. I don’t like games none either.
Then play me straight, her back stiffened. You’ve been comin’ around for a month, two. You sleep in my bed, paid the debt I had for the chickens, but you don’t want me to know your name. You think of yourself as some prophet? Some angel? She shook her head. Makes no sense. People talk, you know? And I can’t tell them much back.
The man raised his head to look at the woman, his jaw was slack, and his head was heavy. There was no work to be found that week, the streets were pure mud, but he had some cash left over from hauling cattle from a ranch outside of Los Angeles all the way south to the border. He’d shacked himself up with the woman all week, drinking and making love and making promises he knew he couldn’t fulfill, but it felt so good to finally give and not take. She had the sweetest smell around the nape of her neck.
Let them talk, woman.
You say you love me.
As much as a man can, the man said, slow but eager, his blue eyes caught the light of an ember but he felt cold. He knew their time was running short. For years, he’d felt as though something, somewhere, was running full speed to catch him, and once it caught him, it’d snap his neck and find its next prey that same night. The man was weaned on destruction, had never known his mother. He could never rest his head comfortably beside a woman day in and day out knowing that Death himself was somewhere nigh that golden horizon waiting until the moment he had championed himself finally to strike him down dead— he’d seen his future and his past, and they both looked like that same white mass of lard and dread and that sick-to-his-stomach-feeling.
But it ain’t enough, she sighed, stirring a pot of stew.