• jill macdonald

High Line

The Jag disappeared in a plume of dust.The man knew he would see it again. In his experience, cars turned up like women - just when he had time and space to give them the attention they deserved.

Stretched out on the hood of his truck, warm metal eased the muscles in his back. His knuckles were grazed and swollen from monkey wrenching all week. This was meant to be his year. The season when everything fell into place. But so far, he had traded mechanics for housing and a pup trailer full of diesel. He needed a good soak in a cold creek. Something to clear away grease, dust and a vague longing he had to just walk away. From everything.

Take this chick in the Jag, for example. What was she doing out here? He shifted his hips. A car like that was not meant to be kicking up gravel. Never mind the paint chips and strain on the suspension, she was going to blow a spring and end up in the ditch or rolled over. It was criminal. The bush wasn't meant to be any person's sanctuary. Living out here took a certain understanding.

He opened his eyes. Streaks of rose floooded the sky, turning the underside of clouds into brusied purple warnings. He had to go after her. In another five minutes, she would hit the one-way bridge, climb up onto the west shoulder of the mountain and shoot hard for the end of the valley. He had twenty-five minutes to catch her before dark.

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