Cityscapes, Country Roads

Cityscapes, Country Roads #33

Lefter Homes9 Comments

Like in Antalya, where George spent the night waiting for her flight to arrive, and, in the morning, finding her and saying hi.

The drive to Kemer reminded him of now Santa Monica, now Redondo Beach, now La Jolla, but with the sea on the other side. The other side of the car, the road, the other side of her. The sunrise side.

Palm trees and cargo ships. Past Kemer, over the hill and down into Çamyuva where a week of days and nights awaited him, her, them.

Days later, the excursion farther south along the Med. She said some millennia ago, Alexander the Great and his army camped right here. She would know. George just saw trees, rocks, sea. He saw her. Over the pass, down along the large, low greenhouses growing tomatoes. Finike. Over more mountains.

A boat launch in Kaş took them out to the submerged Greek ruins in Plexiglass-bottomed boats. They shared a snack on a tiny island in the half-shelter of a half-ruined closet-sized temple.

On the way back, they stopped in Demre for St. Nicholas church (under extensive remodel) where she prayed (for George’s soul, also under extensive remodel), and then they ate the best meal of the trip in an open-air cafeteria, set up to feed many bus loads of tourists daily.

Back in Antalya at the end of the week, awaiting clearance for takeoff, George looked out his passenger window and watched her flight climb high into the blue sky until it was just a speck. And then nothing.

George closed his eyes and remembered holding hands at the center of the Roman amphitheater in Myra. Her hair wisping in the wind. Her eyes glinting with the setting sun. Her luscious lips parting as she breathed the word, “No.”

Originally published November 24, 2024

More about the author, Lefter Homes.

Cityscapes, Country Roads #13 (revisited)

Lefter Homes9 Comments

The light of wilted dawn sighed over the hills on the far edge of town. Rows of half-black houses opened their eyes to the cream of a new day, some sloughing off their crustaceous dreams for the sake of the heroic figments who inhabited that vigorous region.

She was the first to rise, although it took some time for her to shine, shining being forbidden in that careful land until thirty-seven minutes after breakfast–if one could pull it off at all.

She opened the fortunate blinds and, watching the empty street cast fantasies of solitude, she debated how moody she would be that day. How far could she push the short patience of those she loved. How long could she milk her slippery schadenfreude against those she merely admired–hate being buried too deeply in her doused vocabulary to do her any good on an average day like today.

The vapid lamp across the room ignited, and her anticipation swelled like a heaving toad in a disgruntled forest swamp. Would he or wouldn’t he?

He wouldn’t, but not for three more days.

She had prepared a soliloquy and was trying to decide if perhaps it was more a monologue, when his heavy hand clutched her vivid hip, scuttling her overladen frigate of words.

A car crept to a starving stop at the intersection down the block. She thought it was taking the YIELD sign too seriously.

“I have to prepare for work,” she said, lipidly.

His other arm entwined her like the trunk of an elephant whose tusk could no longer be ignored.

Too many pleasant years of loneliness, of security, of fidelity seeped out of her glistening pores, and she approached the eager intersection, but finding a cold cabbage truck looming, she yielded reluctantly.

In a moment, the road was clear–clear of traffic, clear of honor–and in that hour of late arrival, she yielded completely.

Originally published February 13, 2024

More about the author, Lefter Homes.

Cityscapes, Country Roads #63

Lefter Homes29 Comments

The hearse arrived early the day she died.

She sat up in bed and craned her neck at the window. Her first lucid words in months were: “Have they come for me?”

Sitting in the chair beside her bed, where he had waited eons for her to wake up, he said, “They’ve come for your family.”

She laid her head back softly on the pillow.

He took her hand.

She suddenly opened her eyes wide and said, “My family?”

“I sold the farm. They’ve come to move your family’s graves into town. The backhoes and bulldozers are already here.”

“But this is my farm,” she said. “My family’s farm.”

He released her hand and sat back in the chair.

She looked out the window again. “Why is there snow on the ground?”

“You went into a coma when we were watching fireworks on the Fourth of July.” He stood and went to the window. “Next week is Christmas.”

“You sold–you couldn’t wait till I was gone?”

He wouldn’t disturb her with the details of the insipid cliche–the overused narrative–they found themselves in. The crop had failed that year and he hadn’t been able to pay the back taxes. The bank would have bought the tax lien, but a white knight made an offer for the farm that covered the taxes and most of her medical bills–in addition to moving her family cemetery into town.

He simply said, “Don Dickson made a fair offer that keeps the farm from the coyotes.”

She closed her eyes and murmured, “Don Dickson.”

He approached the bed and rubbed her dying arm. He adjusted her stocking cap and pulled it down over her ears. Her hair had never grown back after chemo ended in the spring.

She slapped his hand away, and, flashing an angry smile full of teeth, said, “Don Dickson was the only man I ever cheated on you with.”

Leave a comment with your choice for his response.

A. He says nothing. He sets his jaw and listens carefully to the cold coyote calling in the distance.
B. He says, “I know. Me too.”
C. He picks up a crochet-covered throw pillow and says, “It’s medication time.”
D. Invent your own.