F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Andrew Wilson
She glided in, as beautiful as ever.
“I hoped you would be ugly when I saw you again,” I said.
“What? Why?” She answered quizzically.
“Then I could look at you like you look at me,” I responded flatly.
She sat down at the table, and it was hard not to notice how her dress clung to her body. Everything, from the top of her head to her sandaled feet, seemed important. Her toenails needed to be done; she hadn’t a lot of money since being on her own.
She knew I was looking at her; she liked it when I looked at her. I was an artist, and no one looked at her like I did. She loved it, but it wasn’t enough anymore. She had moved on. Still, she liked how I looked so intently, drawing her in my mind; an invisible pencil ran along her contours, leaving a mark that would be hard to forget.
Our eyes met; mine spoke, hers were reticent. She tapped a rhythm on the table, then restlessly sighed as she withdrew a pen from her purse. She’d been patient, but no longer listened to the unspoken. She didn’t have ears for that sort of thing.
There were papers. As she signed, she shed each away, like a discarded layer. With the pile gathered between us, she stood up, no longer burdened, a long-held weight set down.
The notary knocked on the door; she let her in. What a job a notary has, making things official, making things done. It was time to write the settlement check, and I felt sick.
She trembled with excitement, just barely, hidden. Jesus, I thought, so that’s how it was and had been? With the check signed, we walked together from the house to her car. Then there was a surprise. A hug goodbye; it was tight, warm, a memory, and abrupt release, and she got behind the wheel and dashed away.
In a strange mood, sitting on the couch, there wasn’t much to do. Perhaps a hike would be good; I put on my boots and went out the door; the house was too quiet to stay.
Within 10 minutes, I was in the woods on my favorite path, checking the usual spots for tracks; in these places, there was comfort. Things made sense in the wild. A covey of mountain quail made their way through the brush, and I was glad to see them. It was nice knowing there were still some out there after the season. As always, their gentle clucking and murmuring sounded suspicious and loaded with gossip, but I didn’t pay them any mind. The way they waddled between the sage and manzanita was hard to take seriously.
Working my way uphill, it was late when I got to the overlook. Gazing into the expansive landscape felt good; feeling tired from the hike felt real. The temperature dropped. In the distance, yellow dots of light punctuated the carpet of forest along the valley floor. It was late.
On the way back to the cabin, the shock of nearly stepping on a snake in the path made me jump. I had not been watching where I was going. In my current mood, I acted without thinking. Drew my pocket knife and, in a fluid movement, stooped and plunged the weapon into the snake’s head. The snake writhed, and its rattle vibrated on the gravel. The snake’s body convulsed and constricted around my arm; it felt warm. Disgusted, I flung it from my blade.
The snake twisted once more, and I thought maybe I should save it for something. Instead, I walked on. Besides, an old-timer once told me a dead snake can still bite.
It would be silly to get hurt now, especially after being so impulsive with something so dangerous.
The post Rattle Snake appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
She glided in, as beautiful as ever.
“I hoped you would be ugly when I saw you again,” I said.
“What? Why?” She answered quizzically.
“Then I could look at you like you look at me,” I responded flatly.
She sat down at the table, and it was hard not to notice how her dress clung to her body. Everything, from the top of her head to her sandaled feet, seemed important. Her toenails needed to be done; she hadn’t a lot of money since being on her own.
She knew I was looking at her; she liked it when I looked at her. I was an artist, and no one looked at her like I did. She loved it, but it wasn’t enough anymore. She had moved on. Still, she liked how I looked so intently, drawing her in my mind; an invisible pencil ran along her contours, leaving a mark that would be hard to forget.
Our eyes met; mine spoke, hers were reticent. She tapped a rhythm on the table, then restlessly sighed as she withdrew a pen from her purse. She’d been patient, but no longer listened to the unspoken. She didn’t have ears for that sort of thing.
There were papers. As she signed, she shed each away, like a discarded layer. With the pile gathered between us, she stood up, no longer burdened, a long-held weight set down.
The notary knocked on the door; she let her in. What a job a notary has, making things official, making things done. It was time to write the settlement check, and I felt sick.
She trembled with excitement, just barely, hidden. Jesus, I thought, so that’s how it was and had been? With the check signed, we walked together from the house to her car. Then there was a surprise. A hug goodbye; it was tight, warm, a memory, and abrupt release, and she got behind the wheel and dashed away.
A Most Violent End
In a strange mood, sitting on the couch, there wasn’t much to do. Perhaps a hike would be good; I put on my boots and went out the door; the house was too quiet to stay.
Within 10 minutes, I was in the woods on my favorite path, checking the usual spots for tracks; in these places, there was comfort. Things made sense in the wild. A covey of mountain quail made their way through the brush, and I was glad to see them. It was nice knowing there were still some out there after the season. As always, their gentle clucking and murmuring sounded suspicious and loaded with gossip, but I didn’t pay them any mind. The way they waddled between the sage and manzanita was hard to take seriously.
Working my way uphill, it was late when I got to the overlook. Gazing into the expansive landscape felt good; feeling tired from the hike felt real. The temperature dropped. In the distance, yellow dots of light punctuated the carpet of forest along the valley floor. It was late.
On the way back to the cabin, the shock of nearly stepping on a snake in the path made me jump. I had not been watching where I was going. In my current mood, I acted without thinking. Drew my pocket knife and, in a fluid movement, stooped and plunged the weapon into the snake’s head. The snake writhed, and its rattle vibrated on the gravel. The snake’s body convulsed and constricted around my arm; it felt warm. Disgusted, I flung it from my blade.
The snake twisted once more, and I thought maybe I should save it for something. Instead, I walked on. Besides, an old-timer once told me a dead snake can still bite.
It would be silly to get hurt now, especially after being so impulsive with something so dangerous.
The post Rattle Snake appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
