By Richard Al Ledger

“I can't wait to see you” I said, the heavy black phone receiver pressed tightly against my ear so I could hear every sound, accent, every breath a static underlying.

“You too. And drive safe.” Her sweet, youthful voice hit me like a rush straight to the vein – a syringe half-filled with morphine, pulling a thread of my blood into the mix, swirling it into something warm and dizzying.

I wanted to speak more but tried to play it cool. Truth was I never wanted to get off the phone to her, to keep talking to her, keep listening. Keep hearing her sweet voice, feels like home. I've finally found my home I thought.

“OK well, by this time tomorrow I'll get see your beautiful face. Goodbye Angela, my darling.” I replied after a short breath.

The phone line clicked and went dead to tone. I was hoping for one more reply, one more sentence at least, one more goodbye. I got dial tone. I was probably overthinking it, or maybe she just got shy. No matter, in less than 24 hours I'd have her back in my arms, and this time I had no plans of letting her go. No mistake this time, no more fucking around.

Dial tone and I hooked the receiver.

I had quite the drive in front of me. Eight hours of straight tarmac heading South and a stop off at a cheap motel, followed by another four or more before the finish line was even in sight. A long drive indicative of a new life somewhere else entirely.

I was fuelling for coffee, I walked back into the espresso house and took my seat back at the table. Looking around I saw fresh faced students with laptops, expiring mothers with inspired children, guys pretending to read books leering at women with dark eyes, grey skin, low hats and overcoats always overcoats.

I picked up my book I'd laid flat on the table and continued to read, Dean and Marylou in New Orleans. Before I'd even realised it i'd read the same sentence maybe five times over and still didn't understand it. I couldn't concentrate. Maybe it was the surge of caffeine, maybe it was the nervous flutters in my stomach.

Why didn't she say goodbye one last time? I'd cued her up for an 'I love you' or at least a 'goodbye my sweetheart, Michael, my baby'. Maybe she didn't hear me? Where she is right now rather remote, right on the coast, the gushing cold tides and steep cliffs, surrounded by fishing towns and little in the way of service pylons, the place you might go to get lost forever. Luckily I'd managed to find her so I could get lost too, lost together.

That was probably it, and she's more than likely thinking the same thing as I am, clutching her phone to her full chest, I can see it now in my lobes. That settled my stomach a little so I decided upon a final swig of my black coffee, by now just cold black swill with a reflective skin, hints of a rainbow reminds me of washing liquid.

My eyes followed a young female student across the cafe and into the one mixed gender bathroom cubicle, she'll soon find out the toilet roll situation like a did a while back. I looked at her laptop sitting unattended on the table and for a brief moment thought about taking it with me if I left right this second.

The second quickly passed, like seconds do, so I shut my book for good and placed it in my holdall bag. Checking I still had everything still with me, especially the extra money I'd taken out for the just incases. I took one last slurp of coffee which was another bad idea, getting grounds between my teeth – the worst – and one last scan around room. Nobody was giving me the slightest bit of attention, so I spat the grounds back out onto the saucer and held my gaze for a prophecy that didn't materialise.

I stood and intentionally wandered past the pastries counter at a slow pace and said goodbye to the nice young lady behind the espresso machine whom served me my first brew. She caught my eye for second and gave me a courteous but by the numbers farewell, I was hoping for something more sincere.

I walked out of the front doors and towards my car, the stiff winter breeze slapping me in the face, mother nature doesn't care she's just another princess in my life. I curled up the collar on my jacket and wished for a beanie hat to cover my ears feeling spiky in the nesh.

I looked around for an appropriate store but all I could see was a pet shop with lonely hearts blinking from behind tills and inside cages, a chemist with gaunt-eyed junkies hunched outside – bodies like fish bones against the cold – and a forgotten frame shop, unchanged in forty years, which, oddly, gave me comfort.

I heard a tune and looked around me, an elderly bearded man with a lived face was playing on an old guitar missing a string through the middle. He had a weathered front with a deep reddish tanning from years of outside without shade. He had the voice unmistakeably of hurt and regret with cigarettes which nagged familiar with me. We caught each others eye as he sang “This Land is Your Land” badly, his glare lost me in it for a moment, not a proper man there anymore, not a active soul.

“I roamed and rambled, and I've followed my footsteps. . .
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts. . .
All around me, a voice was sounding. . .
This land was made for you and me. . .

. . .Spare a coin or two for an old unlucky man sir?”

“I don't have a dime.” I jingled like a cowboy strapped with bullets as I walked on.

“Okay then, I'll keep playin' it by the numbers sir.” His reply, which I thought an odd one.

On the horizon I smelt a heavy air and the pickled glow from the embers of a forest fire on the edge of town, burned unnaturally, man made and fanned by a lingering imitation heatwave. Erasing trails and footpaths and someones past.

I took my leather soled boot to the four tyres of my Hyundai one by one, checking for...I don't know what – but it felt like a sound enough thing to do before a long drive. I'm sure i'd seen my old father do it before, a long ago memory now – so long past I could no longer see his face.

They seemed fine, fine enough for a man who doesn't know what he's kicking them in the first place for, anyway. I got in my car and blasted the heater which blew only cold air and old dust for the first ten minutes, making my eyes itch and redden, making me sneezy and my lids a little thick and heavy. A stark reminder that the vehicle, now twenty years old, had been stripped to the bare essentials even when it was new – back when Dad was still alive. I bought it from an American man in a rush, he had a crying black child strapped to his chest in a baby carrier, a handcuff linking the harness to his own wrist. I never asked why. A Korean frame that the fat yank convinced me had an Audi engine encased in a shush, I was always skeptical but never thought to look it up until right this moment, now too late to make a damn difference.

She purred like a wheezing geriatric, all spit and protest, but as I finally warmed us both up – her on near last legs but with a full tank. I set off, the seat groaning beneath me like it knew better. Leaving behind the old man with his guitar slowly rocking back and forth in the hot wind, the soot of burning trees some way off occasionally danced like a black snow from a horrid hell near bye which inched closer.

The only CD in the car was a bizarre ’90s punk rock cover album that had mysteriously appeared in my life two decades ago and never quite left. A relic, most likely, from some forgotten romance – probably hers, the girl with the oversized jeans and chipped nail polish, who left quietly one night but left this behind. I regretted not waiting for the mixed gender bathroom to take another shit as the caffeine rumbled in my bowels, breaking down the solids inside.

Two hours into the drive, I finally switched to the radio – I'd heard Jolene covered by a man in a sore tone for the third time over, I already knew all the words straight through. The local radio crackled to life with the agitated chatter of some coked-up twenty-something, – on his own youth, rambling with forced enthusiasm about a show he'd watched the night before – clearly reading from a pre-scripted skit, his producer laughing just a beat too late.

I stopped paying attention, caught up in the fuzz of the white stripes ahead, always ahead, never ending white stripes until I was awoken to the voice of a contestant whom had called up to take part in a general knowledge quiz and was doing rather well too. I tuned back in, the mood lower now – mellower – bleeding through the tinny speakers in the doors and from the dash. A flicker of realisation hit me: the frantic radio host from earlier had vanished, replaced by the calming tones of an older woman whose voice felt more aligned with my own state of mind. I glanced at the digital clock next to the petrol gauge – more time had passed than I’d realised.

I thought about the lapse of time between the two radio hosts, how little I’d registered of the road in between. Careless. I couldn’t recall a single landmark – not a car, not a cow, not even the vague outline of a wooden hut. Just the persistent smudge of a white line blurring under me. No memory of speed, no sense of control. Had I drifted through a speed trap without even blinking? Possibly. I made a mental note to stay sharp, to be present. But predictably, I drifted off again not long after – mind loosening to the white hypnotic beats under my feet.

Four hours in, and the sun was kissing the horizon – blinding, low, and merciless. I could barely see a thing when it wasn’t momentarily softened by the thinning fringe of roadside trees or blocked by the odd derelict building offering my eyes a brief, blessed reprieve. Should’ve brought driving glasses. Not that I owned any in the first place.

My eyelids were heavier than they’d ever been – steel shutters at closing time, nearly all the way down. I had to slap myself, hard, just to stay tethered to a tepid kind of consciousness. The road was warping now – sometimes three lanes turned into six, and I knew that was a bad deal. I looked out the window at trees, houses, and metal structures – they were recognisable, but wrong, shuffled like a deck of cards dealt by a drunk. Familiar shapes in unfamiliar places. Dislodged. Rearranged. As if either the speed was bending reality, or my overtired brain had started truncating the world into a half-remembered version of itself. I blamed the fatigue, but the truth is, it felt like I was slipping between realities.

With two hours still to go before the planned motel stop, I made the snap decision to pull into a roadside café I’d clocked a mile or so back. A flickering neon beacon – half-alive, half-dead – had caught my eye like a mirage. The turnoff came sooner than expected, too sudden, I had to veer across two lanes of traffic and a chorus of angry horns just to make it. Sloppy, dangerous, but the thought of rest – even the cheap kind served with old coffee and buzzing strip lights – was too tempting to ignore.

As I rolled the car into one of the bays, I offered myself a quiet personal sermon – justifying that nearly missing the turn was proof of tiredness, not recklessness. Not the madcap reflex of a distracted fool, but exhaustion, pure and creeping. In truth, I’d crossed into that strange island of madcap sleep deprivation where the finer details – signs, distance, sound – slip loose from the mind like steam. I wasn’t a good driver either, as I’d been told often, by more women than I cared to remember.

I dragged my carcass into the dimly lit tin can of a diner, narrow as a coffin and tiled like a public toilet. One side was lined with dark green booths, cracked vinyl and crooked tabletops, while the other faced a wall cluttered with sepia-toned photos of long-dead actors and forgotten sportsmen, their glass frames fogged with grease and time. I paid for a black coffee at the kiosk, handed over by a kindly, motherly woman who was still perming what remained of her purple hair—thin as cigarette paper now, her scalp visible beneath the brittle strands and long-dead ends that curled away from her skull like dried roots.

I took a seat in one of the booths that overlooked the parked cars out front. The streaks of headlights passing north to south through dirty glass on the hill almost dream like, something beautiful about that site – freedom. I looked at my Korean baking foil sandwiched between German steel tanks and couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of envy.

At least they weren’t heading to see a woman like Angela – the beautiful angel with the red lips and those magnificent breasts – watching over me like a sacred curse. In that small, absurd way, I had a one-up on the rest of the world. It gave me a flicker of comfort, shallow and fleeting, just enough to take the edge off. Still, something in me tugged – low, aching – in the testicles, a tightness running down the centre seam of my scrotum like a warning light. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone wrong in our last phone call. But exhaustion blunted it all. Numbness washed over me like a lukewarm bath, a quiet fizz in the chest that crept upward like heartburn, nestling behind the eyes. Even thinking was a chore.

I took a sip of coffee, it did not taste fresh, and it didn't take my bowels long to remind me that I needed to relieve my innards from a pot stew. I took a napkin and placed it next to my brew as a marker to a ghost that I hadn't left for good.

As I got up, I caught a couple of grunts near the door tracking my movement, their eyes lingering just a second too long. Dressed in hi-vis builder’s jackets stretched tight over thick arms and bad tattoos, they looked like the type who could fold me in half without much ceremony. I joked to myself that if they came for me, I’d at least see them coming. Still, I looked away. If they wanted to make something of it, they probably could. And if they did, well – maybe I deserved it more than they did.

I took a standard edition loose shit and scanned the toilet roll skid mark for any signs of blood or crawlers, as always – but we checked out. I took my seat back at the table bypassing the eyeballs and noticed someone had written on the napkin in what looked like dark lipstick.

It read 'To handsome, 07591 162 11 for a good time.'

I instantly recognised there was one digit short for a full phone number and I was left disheartened but suddenly more alert. I scanned around the room looking for a maroon lipstick finish, but found only whiskers above lips. Surely not the motherly lady at the counter with the scalp? Alas even she went for a natural look on her skins.

I chose not to overthink it—decided, instead, to take it as a small victory, a flicker of confidence gifted from what might’ve been a hot one. But no sooner had I told myself that than I found my eyes fixed on the women’s bathroom door, staring like a reaper on the ward, silently waiting, right through to the dregs of my lukewarm coffee.

Nobody came in nor out in of the bathrooms the whole time. A few old men in plaid shirts shuffled out of the cafe. I scanned around the room rotating my neck, not a vagina in the joint, only cockerels out at this time of night. When I'd found the bottom of the cup, I got up to leave and noticed the two builders had also left, leaving only the crust of a sandwich, some silvers and a screwed up napkin. I opened the napkin up and sure enough, 'To handsome, 07591 162 11 for a good time.'

Whoever it was really needed to brush up on their phone number – its bad for business. I took the change and moved quickly.

Five minutes later I was back on the road. No less tired than before in all honesty – my heart unfathomably crushed. I needed to reassure myself that I wasn't in some romantic novel and the napkin was just a business card for a working girl. A dyslexic one at that.

It was another fifteen minutes later that I received a warning. A symbol on the dashboard, amber flashing red, that looked like an engine part was farting left to right. It was then I wished I knew more about cars, unlucky for me half a mile further down the road my car cranked its last shaft, and I glided her silently into the hard shoulder while sleek engines – alive and roaring – whizzed past, cruising at seventy-plus, their chipper hums mocking me as I sat stranded, a broken heap by the roadside.

I got out, walked up the embankment and called the pick up hotline where a woman with a heavy smokers voice told me I'd be waiting there for three hours if I'm lucky – it might even be the morning. I asked her what the point of my breakdown cover was at a time like this, she told me she didn't care one bit – the line went dead – and that was the end of that.

I locked the car but couldn’t resist a last, futile glance under the hood – whatever was wrong was beyond me. I gave the tires a half-hearted kick, like saying goodbye to an old friend, then turned and started walking back the way I came, back to the roadside café I’d not since left.

My thinking being at least there the breakdown guy could pick me up and I'd at least have the luxury of a coffee, some pie, a faux leather booth to kill some time in relative comfort. You never know, I might even bump into Miss Maroon Lipstick. I decided that if I did, and with the money I had, maybe I'd treat myself to a warm up shift before I finally rendezvoused again with Angela.

07591 162 11

For a good time call

It had been an hour – easily that – trudging through the thick darkness, and by now all I craved was a glass of water and somewhere to sit down. My armpits were damp, my groin heavy with sweat, chafing had moved from possibility to inevitability. I could feel the raw friction blushing on the insides of my thighs, skin rubbing inside the elastic of my jocks like sandpaper on meat.

The headlights I'd been walking into were giving me a delerium and crippling headache, I'd decided in this silent time to myself that I'd prefer to wait and be true to Angela, sweet Angela, I'm sorry for having sordid thoughts. The last thing I wanted to do was give her crabs from a roadside hooker who couldn't remember her own phone number nor a pen to write it down with.

Another set of blinding white lights shot past at close range before I realised that the very same car had swerved into my footsteps crunched into the gravel behind me. I turned around and clenched my fists ready, self preservation incase it was some weirdo that wanted a piece. I'd heard about those crazy eyed highway types and I'd known first hand from a previous life what the road can do that to people, send them insane, insecurity – expose the fragility of a man to his core – stripe you bare – lost souls indicated by maniacal stares endured by the miles.

Maybe the grunts that'd eye'd me up at the cafe had spotted me and wanted a brawl after all, or to rape me or kill me. The engine cut out behind me. The red tail lights dimmed to black. It was a vintage BMW E30, clean as a whistle and unnervingly quiet for something that old.

I stood and waited to see what was going to happen next holding my breath, inflated lungs ready for most anything including to run. When the drivers car door opened with a sigh, I tensed more and felt a slight tremor in my curled fingers. To my surprise I was greeted by a slim pair of recently shaven perfectly formed sheen legs, I relaxed somewhat, my testicles flushed and my penis filled with some blood. I felt lightheaded, though I couldn’t say whether it was from fear, exhaustion, or the surreal juxtaposition of violence and desire.

Two impossibly red patent heels touched down on the gravel-strewn shoulder, striking the dust with ceremonial precision. Then, as if on cue, the rest of her unfolded from the vehicle – a choreography of curves, elegance, and unknown intent. Passing headlights flickered across her like the strobes of vintage paparazzi, casting her in momentary freeze-frames: a starlet arriving to her own premiere.

She was extraordinary to look at – not in the sculpted, glossy way you see on screens, but in the kind of way that bends reality for a moment. There was an aura about her, rare and unspeakable, like a song you once heard in a dream but could never find again. My own reality was crumbling at the edges – sore feet, a dried throat, a broken car an hour down the road – but her presence softened it, like balm on an old burn.

As she stepped into the glow of another passing headlight, I saw the flush of her face, a faint blush masked by something darker – the dull bloom of bruising along her left cheekbone. But it was her eyes that held me: haunted, distant, quietly detonated. I’d seen that look before in others – and worse still, I’d been the cause of it too many times to pretend otherwise.

“Want a ride?” She asked as I automatically found myself edging towards her like a tractor beam.

She was dark haired and it was pinned back, pale skinned and gold band earrings which seemed to have a mind of their own in the light breeze. I noticed she was wearing lipstick, but it was too dark to make out if it was maroon or otherwise. Regardless, I'd already decided to find out more for myself.

“Sure.” I replied, trying to be cool even though I felt dishevelled and dehydrated, my thighs raw.

“Where are you heading too?” She replied as she kept her hand on the car door to keep it closing shut expertly.

“Down to Newport eventually, but I've booked myself into the Blackwood Motel for the night straight south down road twenty two coming off at eight eleven.” I'd decided to suggest the exact motel name and journey in case she wanted a night of hot romping with me.

“Well I can give you a ride there if you like?” She replied with a wry smile that I utterly enjoyed. Maybe she did want that hot romp after all. Angela could wait, if I ever needed to give her another thought at all.

I decided if she wanted to take me there I could get a cab from the motel back to my broken down carcass of a car in the morning, ring to rebook the breakdown service if necessary, extra time and considerable cost no matter, I'd eat it. I wasn't sure if my choices were sound at this point or if my penis was making all of the wrong decisions for me again, but the penis voice was loud and impressive, and it appeared I was willing listen to it.

“That's great, thanks.” I replied as calmly as I could as my stomach churned like vanilla and cum ice cream.

I walked towards the car, my legs felt like jelly not yet completely set. The closer I got, the prettier she looked, which I only took as a good and bad sign.

“I'm Michael by the way, thanks so much for this.” I said as I shook her hand. Conscious my palm was clammy, I'd decided I'd made it brief, but I noticed hers in return wanted to linger a little longer, like her hand was saying something her mouth had not yet.

“Jane. Don't mention it. Get in.” Not a great deal of pleasantries but we could continue the conversation in the car I thought. So I did as told and got in the passengers seat before she got a chance to change her mind.

We'd been driving fifteen minutes and hardly said a word to each other. We'd passed my Korean piece of shit on the shoulder, I'd decided not to mention it. I'd come back for her tomorrow after I'd got my dick wet, seedy thoughts lingering, a terrible habit. The conversation was as dry as my mouth – I was gasping for a drink and I couldn't think straight. It'd been a long day, all I'd drank all day had been coffee, black low quality filter coffee, not even decent espresso.

“You want a burger?” She said out of nowhere, making me startle I realised I was drifting into an unscheduled siesta watching the road play out in front, those white lines were again playing me. At first I thought it might have been a euphemism of some kind, but I decided that was my brain playing tricks on me, I'd definitely lost clarity of through dehydration and the strange occurrings.

“What?”, Was my reply. I instantly realised it made me sound stupid and ignorant, but it was out there in the ether now.

“A burger? Hamburger? I know a joint just on the next turn. Deano's, you ever tried it?” She replied. I could tell by her tone that she hadn't liked my one word reply, and I needed to do better this time.

“No I've never been this far south before. Is it good?” Ended on a question, better.

“Is it good? It's locally raised Wagyu beef with only just enough fat to keep it moist. It's the best burger I've ever eaten, I've been to some great burger places I can tell you but this one is the best. Is it good? Yeah, its fuckin' pretty good Mike.”

I wanted to crack a joke – ask if she had stock in the place, or maybe ran their marketing department – but it felt too early to test her comedic wiring. She was still keeping her cards close, speaking only in headlines.

“Isn't Wagyu strictly Japanese?” I asked still coming around. I think I'd seen it once on a documentary about the Japanese cow industry.

“I don't know nothing about that exactly Mike. I've just seen it on their menu and it's an easy word to remember. Wag-yu.” She pronounced it again with a great satisfaction. “Do you want a burger or not?” She seemed short with me, like we'd been married five years. I didn't like it.

“Sure, I'll take a burger. But only if it's on me, I owe you one.” I tried to be gentlemanly, it does not come easily.

“Oh, you'll owe me one alright.” Her reply was enough to almost bring me to orgasm. Mixed signals was the understatement of the century with this chick, she kept her eyes on the road but I saw the corner of her lip roll ever so slightly.

“Don't call me a chick, Mike.” She quipped as quick as a flash, turning her head to meet my gaze for just a moment, I could tell she was absolutely tangibly furious. Passing headlamps lit up her face and sliced through the blackness, the lines in her face lit up and for a second I saw many hard times, her hair wild and untamed. Chaotic blazing terrifying eyes of lucid fire, uncontrolled, maniacal.

Had I said that out loud? My heart started racing again like I'd been caught in bed with another women by my dead wife. Maybe I was so tired and dehydrated I was getting myself all muddled, thinking conversationally yet saying thoughts out loud. I looked over at her with a newly sweated brow, she simply carried on driving, eyes back on the road, a returning calm in her flesh. I stared at her fascial contour, as beautiful as the first time I'd laid eyes on her some twenty minutes previous.

I thought it best to say nothing more for now.

I followed her into the diner that gave off a traditional Irish American bar kind of vibe. I liked the joint almost immediately looking around, cosy with sports memorabilia adorned on the aging paint, dark enough to cast thick black shadows but just bright enough to let you admire the shape of your meal before digging in. It felt curated, but not fake – like a place that had simply stayed the same while the world around it changed costume many times over.

Keeping two paces behind her, I caught a sly, devious nod from the old guy behind the counter – a flick of the chin that felt like a “well done, kid,” not entirely wholesome, as though I’d earned a silent medal for arriving with that kind of woman on my arm.

We sat in one of the booths wrapped in antique leather by the windows and for the first time I got a good look at her. She was as beautiful as I'd imagined, maybe even more so. Silky bangles in her hair and honey-brown eyes. She immediately started on the menu but before she covered her mouth I could see her lipstick was a maroon red and I immediately wished I'd kept the napkin from the road side spot to colour match.

She let her hair down, and it was raven black. As she scanned the menu I noticed her eyes were wild, like pieces of coal set back. I was already considering whether I loved her or not.

“What are you having your burger with?” She asked without looking at me.

“What are my options?” I thought it was a flirty reply, I was wrong.

“What am I your waitress? Take a look yourself.” She flung the menu at me and clicked her fingers towards the guy who nodded at me earlier. As a former burger flipper myself in a previous life, that gesture made made my testicles draw back into my body and I noticed myself tensing my calves as my heels lifted.

A few of the other patrons had clocked the exchange too – eyes dragging across us with a mix of disdain and curiosity – their conversation dropping to a hush, punctuated with the kind of pointed glances and muttered commentary that carries just far enough to sting. The atmosphere shifted slightly, like a change in pressure gauge – judgment hanging in the air, heavy and unspoken, all of it directed at the woman I’d walked in with and, by extension, at me.

I knew the likelihood of getting a goober or some urine in our food now was extremely high, but I didn't care at this point, I'd seen the Cola soda fountain behind the bar and ever since that's all I'd been able to think about plus a little wonderment of the smell of her vagina. But large Cola over ice beats sex hands down at this point, absolutely no question about it I'd decided, thoughts of sexual organs would return later.

The guy had reluctantly made his way over to us and I could see from his face that he both thought we were two pieces of shit and he was correct.

“What do you want?” He asked, I wasn't sure if he was calling me out for a fight or taking my food order.

“I'll get the Wagyu cheeseburger and curly fries. He'll get the same, and two large Colas over ice.” She ordered for the both of us but had gotten it so spot on so what did I care?

“Thanks.” I muttered out to at least slightly increase the chances of the chef not nutting into my mayonnaise.

“Fine.” And with that, he was gone.

The Colas came, they were swiftly drank and got reordered with minimal fuss. I felt the E numbers and synthetic sugars shoot through my veins, how H must feel like needle and dropper between the toes and I began to feel alive again, the neutrons in my brain began to fire, but a clarity didn't ensue however still as I'd expected.

We chatted about work and personal history, top line stuff lacking details, which was fine by me I didn't care for my own story or hers, but I could tell she was on edge and not entirely happy, a trouble lingered over her like an angel with a burden of great grey weight, it was there for all to see behind the scorned eyes. At this point I was just glad for the burger and the ride, my need for fucking her had diminished greatly as the carbonating mix sat in my bowel like landfill. She was beautiful but she was also kind of a bitch I had decided.

Her striking almond eyes which many men had sure to have been lost in which set perfectly into her face darted towards the windows every time a car came through the parking lot entrance or exit, by design that made me edgy too. That was until the burgers arrived and I didn't hear a word out of her for the next five minutes, as she yammed that sucker down like she hadn't eaten in a week, it was kind of disgusting to watch and she was handsy with the beef, the fingers pressed down on the brioche, ends of fingers creeping into the meat sauce, translucent fat dripped down her palm onto the inside of her wrist where it sat and gathered. I was a little more timid with mine, especially as I went through the layers of lettuce, pickles and picking through the ground round some, scanning for toe nails or pubic hairs before hand. I tried the cum mayo it was good. It was all good, a good burger, I had to give her that.

“It was a good burger, I'll give you that.” See.

“Why would I lie to you about burgers of all things?” She replied, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand – an animal a savage.

I stared at the lipstick marks on her napkin by her eating fingers and my mind went backwards to the mysterious phone number again.

“What are you looking at?” She had noticed my staring, I realised I hadn't been particularly stealthy.

“I have a thing about mouth hygiene.” I didn't know why I said that.

A car slid into the open bay across from our window-side table, smooth like it knew the place. Engine muttering like a machine humming, a silhouette in the driver's seat – as still as taxidermy. The lights went dead.

“You're a fucking freak, Mike.” Her retort was as blunt as a rusty blade at sea and so was I. Shocked into a silence severely, but thankfully she continued to speak to fill my caustic hush – I was a short termed mute. “I've got to go make a phonecall. I'll let you pick up the bill and we'll get out of this racket. What do you say?”

“I say OK.” I was still in shock but managed that much, she was wild and I wasn't sure if I hated her guts, but I still stared at her ass as she got up and walked away. I noticed everyone in the place also stared at her ass as she got up and walked away. Fair fucks, I'd known her an hour maybe and I was already getting jealous tendencies. Maybe I'd be generous and let her give me a BJ in the car after all, with the meat breath.

I’d been sat for twenty minutes, tethered to the booth by a vague loyalty and a now-empty glass. Bothered almost immediately for the duration by a Mongolian Sweet Tooth fly who wouldn't leave me alone, try as I might that thing was tenacious and interested in me sincerely. Mongolian Sweet Tooth flies are famously attracted to Cola and burgers and dogshit particularly, especially ferocious and brazen after dark which it now was. This fucker sure seemed bigger than usual, maybe the Mongol Queen of the local Sweet Tooth community, and was as persistent as a due baby in the mothers cunt after clomiphene. This little purple bastard wouldn't leave me alone, people say if you ignore them they'll ignore you, but I think they're mistaken for the West Texas Spiculum armadillo. At one point it sat on my shoulder, using me as a wet room, my ear lobe a shower curtain, it began washing its face and wings mocking me with a satisfied buzz and flap and looking up at me with all those eyes, so I decided to spit at it to help it soap with my froth. Anyway, eventually I finally killed the little shitbird – after flapping my arms and shoo'ing the thing I managed to manoeuvre the big ol' reflective shiny queen into position, I snapped it against my neck with a crack of my backhand only once, I heard it drop to the seat next to me like a raisin up high and a little bit of green bullshit stuck to my neck. By this point most of the fellow diners had gone home satisfied and I saw our waiter friend out front next to the car that had parked there earlier taking in tobacco smoke and talking to someone who wasn't there.

Another five minutes had passed staring at the fly corpse and there was only me and an elderly gentleman still in the restaurant with wiry limbs and strange jaunty movements, he had a long face and an unkept patchy beard down to his collar line which made his features elongate further.

Not wanting to sleep too late and still with the mind to possibly lay with this chick if at all possible, I decided to go find her and see just what was taking so long. I looked around for our waiter but he was still outside kicking can and still talking incessantly to the nobody.

I got up and made my way to the ladies bathroom, the green door, just where I'd seen her walk past the condiments cupboard clearly spelled wrong. Walking past the cum mayonnaise I placed a flush hand on the lavatory door and took a look behind. The old man watched me with droopy sad eyes but I didn't care enough about him so I went in.

Checkerboard flooring and a shocking pink interior, there on the side of the wash basin was a colour clashing lime green vase with dead flyers in it, I wasn't sure if it was the intentional en vogue dry kind or if they'd only been left to die. An aroma of musk and blood hit my nostrils.

One cubicle was open, the customary toilet paper sheets around the bowl and a toilet brush stained with a yellow-bleached brown tint, the other door was slightly ajar, a creeping inch. I went straight for it, tried to push it open but was immediately prevented by a substantial weight the other side and that's when I knew.

I went around to the other cubicle and stood on the top of the toilet seat which buckled under my weight but held steady. I looked down and there she was, hung on the back door with a piece of blue rope across her neck which was digging through the flesh towards the more substantial tendons. Her left leg was out stretched, her right leg was awkwardly tucked back behind her, angled towards her buttocks. I could tell she was already dead as I could smell the faeces inside her I'm sure flattering undergarments, all they were now were containers to me.

I climbed over to join her and realised I couldn't remember her name, yet here we both were in the cubicle – me full of cheeseburger and Cola and her full of cheeseburger and Cola and dead. I pulled the knot loose from the door handle where she'd secured the main stay of the rope and upon release of the anchor she slithered further down her head dropping against the doorframe her back at an angle uncomfortable to watch and as the noose loosened fully she made a calm noise which sounded like a word I didn't have in my vocabulary.

I knew I couldn't leave her like this so I disrupted her from the door so it could open and then pulled her carcass onto the tiled floor towards the shared sink basin. I searched her pockets and found her car keys inside the breast pocket of her satin shirt which was gesturing open and I was seeing the breasts of a dead women inadvertently, her nipples were erect and vibrant.

I pulled her out of the garish pink room, her patent shoes catching against the tile and causing an occasional squeak of resistance but they did not fall off curled toes.

She sighed again but I was persistent – sweating and in shock – I persevered back into the restaurant next to the condiments, checking for the whereabouts of my waiter friend with the cum mayo. He was still outside, by now having what looked to be a full blooded disagreement with an invisable man, swinging his cigarette closed in his fingers like a sparkler, Guy Fawkes under government. The old man had left which was fortunate, there was an open napkin next to his plate which he'd left next to some unfinished corn ribs and a sunken bottle of beer.

I took my chance and noticed a fire exit sign above a door on the opposite side of the entrance, where we'd come originally in just over an hour or so ago into the slender restaurant. I picked up the dead weight with a struggle, the sandbags which were her limbs causing a disparity and the squelch of the secretion from her arsehole I tried to ignore, as my shoulder compressed against her stomach as I lifted her she said something else to me pacified and sweet.

I went for the door and kicked it open with a forceful flat sole across the bar, it swung open satisfyingly and didn't make too much noise fortunately enough, but did whip back against her legs and at a point I lost one of her heels. I took the longer route around back to the second row of cars where we had parked towards the red buzzing neon entrance sign and I could hear crickets behind us, I could feel her beautiful hair stroking my back and buttocks up and down, her hand seemingly in my pockets, she was occasionally still talking to me as we walked at pace.

I got to her BMW and opened the boot, looking down into the navy fabric which would be her tomb for the night, I had a flash of remorse like I'd killed her, but I just needed to sleep and figure the rest out in the morning. Mornings always clearer, the sun causing clarity especially if I don't choose to drink myself to death during the night.

I placed her into the boot as softly as I could but I noticed I'd ripped the skin from her ankle as I did so, again I felt a sick prickle of guilt in the ribs that I'd hurt her and I was sorry. I took a look at her at peace as she finally lay in a fetal pose and I had a strong sensation of wanting to look after her prone beautiful body, to make sure she could rest properly in her fresh untimely death, she had been in pain and I wanted sorrow to follow her no further down the straight road towards the forevermore, it was the least I could do.

“Death comes to all of us, friend.”

I turned around quickly, my heart was in my ass. The old man from the restaurant stood there nibbling on the remains of a cold corn rib. His jeans were torn at the knees and browned heavily from a aged dirt pushed deep into the fabric, a greening toe with a substantial lemon nail poked from the weather worn fabric of an old converse sneaker on his right foot. I closed the boot of the car on hearing his coarse chorus, she didn't deserve to hear his mocking.

“It will smile at us with its sinister grin and it's piercing yellowed eyes and it's rotting black teeth, and all we can do is smile back and say I'll see you again soon, whilst we smell its rancid breath.”

I just nodded at him in acknowledgement, I wanted to strike him but choose not too, I got into the drivers seat and started the engine, looking back at the old man in the rear view mirror he just blankly stared back at me, didn't look away the entire time as I set off.

I rolled down the hill clutch down so not to make much noise until I joined back onto the highway. If he told anyone of this, they wouldn't believe him I thought – a beautiful dead woman in the trunk of a car, he was just the local crazy old corn rib man.

To be continued…