Bring The Sweater

There really is no other way but straight through. Paul could take a left but that would pull him so far off his chosen course that he'd end up hours behind. Days, maybe. The scenic route is awfully tempting though, especially since the alternative is mind numbingly flat and boring; at this rate stimulation is key. He's been nodding off for the last few hours and jolting himself awake with blaring satellite dance music, windows rolled wide open and copious amounts of glow in the dark energy drinks. Coffee stopped working back in the eastern standard time zone. Not much farther now; 400 kilometres to go then a final 20 or 25 winding through the downtown core proper. If he heads to the coastal highway, he'll add at least another hour. Tempting to pull off at the point, unhook his board and paddle out for a while. To the island even, camp for a night. Maybe never come back. Forage, make do. Build a shelter, light a fire, dig in. Disappear. Start over, once again. If you asked Paul last Wednesday what his plans were for the weekend there's no way anyone would have come up with this. A cross continent sponatneous vision quest with all of his worldly possessions packed into the purple Ranger heading west south west til he can drive no longer. The call came at 3:14 am, that witching hour of deepest sleep and darker dreams. She was running beside him, three strides ahead, looking over her shoulder, goading him on, rushing in and out of low tide, dodging the massive rock pillars erupting from the sand. Paul awoke a millisecond before the first ring- he picked up the phone and it buzzed in his palm. Synchronicity. You're on my mind. Bring the sweater, it's cold here without you. Paul was on the road by 6 am, frantic, elated, terrified, punch drunk giddy, emotionally exhausted. After three solid days of solitary driving, his conviction is waning, eroding from self doubt and sleep deprivation. Too late to turn back, too close to follow through. The sign for the coastal highway flashes by in Paul's periphery. The memory of Cannon beach floods his central nervous system. His hand reaches for the empty seat beside him, brings her sweater up to his chest, breathing her in. Stay the course. Straight on through til the morning.

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