Page 6 of Grease & Grips
“Your playlist’s good,” he says.
Just a casual observation from a man who doesn’t know he’s got me two seconds from pulling over and begging for a kiss. Doesn’t even have to be on the mouth. I’d take a peck on the cheek if it meant feeling his lips on me.
“Didn’t expect country, but… I kinda like it,” he adds.
I keep staring straight ahead because my life depends on it. Road’s the only thing that ain’t gonna make my heart race right now.
“It’s nostalgic. My grandpa used to listen to stuff like this. Feels like summer.” He says, shifting slightly in his seat. Hisknee brushes mine. “You always listen to music like this when you’re towing poor idiots out of ditches?”
Poorhotidiots, I think. Don’t say it though, cause I don’t trust my traitorous mouth not to ask for his hand in marriage.
“Definitely helps improve the mood, that’s for sure,” he continues on. “Something so upbeat and happy about 90’s country music.”
I swallow. “Yeah. Helps me not murder anybody.”
The laugh I get feels like a reward. It’s full, low in his chest, and spills out in short bursts that bounce around the cab making the whole truck feel lighter just from the sound of it. It shouldn’t send a jolt to my dick, but it does because I’m the one who caused it.
Ishouldlaugh with him. Tease him or something. Tell him how he smells real nice and sounds even better, but I just sit there swallowing every dumb thought.
Truth is, I’m down bad. Wouldn’t take much for me to pack a bag and follow him like a stray.
I can’t do that though. I don’t even know if this man’s into guys. Let alone guys like me. And on top of that, he looks the way he does and could have anyone he wants.
He’s the kind of person who’s seen more than the Piggly Wiggly and the local bank. The kind who actually knows what life looks like outside the town he grew up in.
Guys like him don’t flirt with guys like me. Not the ones stuck in places like this, with oil under their nails and too much quiet in their house at night.
I bet he gets matches on dating apps and doesn’t delete them out of frustration after two hours.
He’s got a big, wide world available to him. Flights and friends and rooftop bars.
Places with options.
Places where happiness actually lives.
All I’ve got is this shitty town and a playlist full of songs about lovin’ and leavin’.
Probably looks like I’m trying to strangle the life out of the steering wheel as I white-knuckle it, holding on while his laughter fades and the awkward silence slowly creeps back into the cab.
“So… you from here?”
I get the “Yeah” out, but it ain’t smooth.
“Huh,” he says, like he’s trying to put puzzle pieces together. I imagine right now I’m feeling a lot like the piece that got stepped on ten years ago and hasn’t quite fit right since.
“You like it here?”
That earns him a quick shift in my seat. It’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. That would get him an answer not about facts, but about how often I imagine driving straight past the town line and not stopping until I forget which direction I came from.
“It’s fine.” It sounds like the lie it is.
He considers me, nodding as he pulls his arm off the back of the seat retreating into himself. Then he turns to stare out the window at the darkness flying past.
Nothing quite like the country at night. No street lamps. Only moonlight. Can’t see a damn thing and even if you could, there’s nothing out there to look at anyway.
“Most people hate the dark,” Andrés says, eyes still on the window. “But I kinda like it.”
It lands soft, almost accidental like he’s talking to himself, but the quiet that follows says he was probably looking for a response.
