I'm walking along the shoulder of an asphalt highway in the scrubland desert and I don't remember exactly how long I've been walking. Time loses all meaning when there is so little of it left. An hour. A second. The difference is irrelevant. On the far horizon the sky is orange and purple and pink. I decide that it must be the sunset, because I know with absolute certainty that the sun will not rise again.
The last day fades into the final night. I turn my back on the sunset and walk towards a dawn that I know will never come. There's a green square next to the road that reads "ROSWELL 57". The words seem familiar, but I can't remember what they mean or why they are significant. The sky above the empty desert is filled with stars, more stars than I could hope to count, and I walk between them.
The warm night wind blows the thin fabric of my dress against the curves of my body. I can tell that I'm wearing nothing else underneath. I feel light, unencumbered, and free. I have nothing else. My hands are empty. My feet are bare. Even my hair is gone, shorn down to a fine bristle; the gentle desert breeze tingles my scalp.
My being is unburdened.
An unexpected light casts my shadow long ahead of me. Behind me, the peaceful night song of the desert is ripped open by an angry sound--a motor tearing through the night. It's not the first, but the road is lonely enough that I don't remember the last time a car drove past. I'm caught in the whirl of turbulence as the car blows by. My dress flaps around my knees and clings to my back.
The wind is warm. The sound of the engine recedes and I anticipate the quiet's return, but I'm unexpectedly bathed in red light. I look up.
The car has stopped on the shoulder ahead of me. It has no roof or windows. Two men are turned around in their seats looking at me, waiting for me. I walk forward as I've been doing for as long as I can remember, my entire life I suppose.
"Hey, you want a ride?" One of the men calls out as soon as I draw close enough for him to be heard.
"Yes," I answer, because I do. The road is long and walking is slow.
He gets out of the passenger side of the car and stands with the door open. He waits. As I approach, I see that the back seat of the car with no roof is filled with suitcases and golf bags.
"Where ya headed?" he asks. He's young. Handsome. He reminds me of someone but I don't remember who.
"It doesn't matter," I tell him. This makes him laugh.
"Yeah, I guess not," he agrees, looking around at the empty scrubland. "Well, hop in. We'll take you as far as we can."
"Thank you." I don't tell him it won't be very far. It doesn't matter. Instead I sit on the front bench seat and slide over until I'm pressed up against the driver. He's also young and handsome, but in a different way that doesn't remind me of anyone.
The passenger slides in next to me and we are crowded on the front seat, but not uncomfortably so. I feel the warmth of their bodies so close by. The driver pulls back on to the long, lonely highway. "So what's your name?" he asks.
I realize with some surprise that I have one. "My name is Mary." I give my name to the driver. I have no need of it any longer.
The driver introduces himself and his passenger. The words float past my ears and then fade away. There is no need to hold on to them and so I don't even try. I let their names go free.
"We're headed to a convention in Austin," the driver continues. "Need to check in first thing in the morning, so we're planning to drive straight through the night. Hope that's okay."
I smile without responding. How can I tell them that it doesn't matter? How do I explain that there will be no convention, that there will be no morning? I'm ready for the end of all things, but I don't want to spend the time that is left trying in vain to prepare others. So I smile without responding.
"I like your hair," the passenger says, trying to make conversation. He lays his hand on my knee. "It's bold. The buzzcut really works for you."
The warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of my dress is comforting in a way. The car with no roof speeds down the highway through the empty scrubland between the stars.
"Thank you," I accept the compliment. "My hair was a burden. I'm lighter without it."
"Yeah, I totally get that," the passenger continues. "My ex used to have really long hair, like almost down to her butt. She used to spend hours on it, but she finally just got sick of it and chopped it all off short. I mean, not as drastic as you. Still, I bet that's gotta be real easy to take care of, huh?"
"Yes," I agree.
"Yeah, I thought so. We got a brother--a fraternity brother, I mean--he was in the Marines. He still wears a buzzcut. Says a shampoo bottle lasts him like, for years and he only needs like, three seconds with a towel and he's good to go. Cuts it himself with clippers, so he never has to pay a barber."
The passenger talks too much. His words intrude on the steady drone of the car with no roof as it barrels ever forward behind headlights that slice a path through the starlit darkness. I'm worried that we'll reach the end and I won't even notice, distracted by his prattle of idle chatter.
"Do you want to touch it?" I ask, hoping he'll be quiet. I know that people like to touch my head, that it makes them smile, but I don't know how I know that, or why.
"Can I?" he asks with a grin. I tilt my head towards him and he moves his hand from my knee. He shifts in his seat until his arm is crooked behind my shoulders and his warm hand rests on my scalp like a butterfly alighting on a petal. I'm aware of the strum and flick of each individual hair as he pets me, and I'm soothed by the gentle sensation.
"Oh, man. It's so fuzzy," the passenger remarks. "Like those blankets, you know? The really fuzzy ones?"
I roll my neck, first one way and then the other, ignoring his words. He strokes my near-bare pate in the palm of his hand and I close my eyes, enjoying the tingle of his touch. A sigh of contentment escapes my lips becoming more of a soft moan.
"You really like that, huh?" he asks. I can hear the broad smile in his voice, but I wish he would stop talking.
I don't answer. I shift in my seat and turn my face towards him and I press my lips into his mouth. He is taken aback but quickly returns my kiss, pressing his tongue into my mouth, pulling my head against his, running his other hand up my bare leg.
I like this. I like his hands on my body and his tongue in my mouth and the smell of him on the night air. While I kiss him, I move one hand to his hip and the other behind his neck. I pull his warmth towards me and savor the heat of his body. It may be the last thing I ever feel and I relish it, thankful that it's not rough asphalt beneath my bare feet.
His hand moves up my thigh to my ribs, to my breast. The fabric of my dress slides easily over my skin beneath his hand catching ever so slightly on my wakened nipple and I moan into his lips with new fervor as he paws and kneads at my flesh.
My flesh. My body. This earthly vessel that binds me here on this last night of eternity.
I decide to give him my body. I would be free of it if I could, unburdened of its weight and its needs and its limitations. If this man will take me here between the stars speeding through this emptiness, then I am his.
My hand moves to his lap. Parting our lips I whisper "Do you want me?" even as I feel the answer swell in my palm.
"What--I mean... Yeah!" the passenger exclaims and I pounce on his mouth again before he can say more.
With our tongues entangled I fumble with his belt buckle and he pushes his hand up the inside of my thigh. I perceive his surprise and delight as he finds my sex bare and vulnerable in his hand. I feel the wet on his fingers and the eagerness in his lips.
"Jesus, get a room you two," the driver scoffs. "Dammit, I knew I should have let you drive."
We ignore the driver and frantically struggle to free the passenger's straining erection. When it stands tall and yearning in the night air he shifts in his seat and I swing my leg across his lap to straddle him. I am blasted by a torrent of wind. He pushes the hem of my dress up around my waist and the heat of his cock radiates against my thighs.
I lean down out of the wind, taking his face in my hands and I kiss him before he starts talking again. Moving my hips, I shift and I squirm in his lap to align his ardent manhood. His fingers dig furrows in my bare ass. At last I find the swollen head of his cock nestled just within the flowering threshold of my body.
He draws me forward and I thrust against his fullness with a groan of acceptance. Again he drives his body into mine and again I groan with the effort of receiving him, and again, and again until my body is filled and tight.
My hands are braced on the seatback behind the passenger as I ride his cock with a desperate passion. His hands wander over my body under the dress--caressing, stroking, petting--his touch a scintillating convergence of desire. We fly through the night in the car with no roof and the wind buffets the back of my shoulders and head sending ripples of tingling stimulation across my scalp.
The passenger's lips break from mine and he pushes the thin fabric up my sides, over my tits. He takes one into his mouth, playing his tongue across my nipple. The driver reaches over to grope my other bare breast and takes the opportunity to caress my sides, my back, my ass.
The twisted fabric sits awkwardly bunched on my chest so I shift my weight back on the swollen flesh that fills me, and crossing my arms, I pull the dress over my head.
