Cayuse by Jessica Lavadour
Darkness pummeled the U-haul cab as we drove down a busy highway. I sat in the passenger seat, he in the driver’s, and we rode silently beside each other while music from the radio attempted to nudge out the blackness. I looked out of my window and gazed at the blurry city lights beyond the guard rail and pale yellow field at my right. While the tires of the truck ate up the white and yellow lines on the pavement, I noticed, all too clearly, the subtle smile playing on his lips. I noticed, for a moment his blue eyes that almost mirrored the azure river at our left, and I noticed, only then, the sweep of his mahogany hair framing his beautiful face as we sat in the cab of the U-haul, carrying all of our belongings, as darkness tumbled inside and swallowed us whole.
As we pulled into the driveway of the house my grandfather built, and shut the U-haul off, we sat silently for a few minutes. When it was broken, this silence that I had found comfort in, his voice seemed to boom out from every crevice in the tiny cab.
“Wanna pack the bed in?” he said, and I nodded sleepily.
We hauled the bed out of the U-haul and carried it into the house, too tired to get it to the bedroom, we stopped in the living room and dropped the mattress there, in the middle of the living room floor.
I got the blankets out that we’d boxed up, and the pillows, and made the bed. We laid down, too tired to talk, and listened to the rainfall.
Our hands held each others languidly, hardly at all even. The rain fell, angrily now upon the tin roof and it lulled our nearly sleeping ears. Unconsciousness overtook us and we slept, hand in hand.
Even in this unconscious state, his presence captivated me, pulled me away from myself and threw my soul in with his, and it rested there contently.
