Hitch

Life can shift in one day. The weatherman squawks about showers and there is blazing sunlight. Not the precipitation you expected. The last Dodge you took a ride in broke down and then exploded next to a desert highway. You kept waiting for Steven Spielberg to yell, “Cut” and a swarm of extras to congratulate you, touch up your makeup, and the lighting to dim. But you crawled out and what everyone sees in you is true. Strength isn’t always easy. So you put your thumb out and hummed a Cross Canadian song for good luck. You were not expecting to get picked up so quickly. How do you tell someone you are new - unknown, even to yourself? The open road doesn’t frighten you. Walking next to the highway feeling gravel rolling under your boots crackling with change, you are happy. You aren’t a little girl anymore and the space you fill seems an easy middle ground. You look in the visor mirror and hardly recognize the woman covered in ash. But you kind of like it. The grease monkey look suits you. These are situations that don’t come around often but you are so used to dysfunctional truckers who try and feed you pork rinds laced with bullshit.
You are thankful for the ride. Hell, you’ve had your eye on a model like this for a long time. Didn’t know it came with all the perks. But someone will have to do a little work to keep you in the cab. Door handles fit easily into your palm. So far, the music is smooth, steady and the pace slow. No destination in mind – only seconds rolling off your spine. Just the way the stranger in you likes it.