Carolina Moon
“It was in the early spring—only three months ago—a humid, drizzly day, the kind of day the light stays the same from sunup to sundown. His windshield was streaked with mud, so he pulled into Doug Taylor’s Exxon to borrow the squeegee. It was while he was wiping down the windows of his truck that he saw her standing inside the office. At first he thought he was seeing things, some other person just passing through town. She wasn’t so special-looking; there were hundreds of thousands of people on... the face of the earth who could be mistaken for her. Straight, shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair, sharp little features that prompted people to use words like “cute” and “pert,” pale eyes too large for the rest of her, bringing to her face a kind of inward sadness like those pictures of alley cats and orphan children. He still got himself to sleep many nights with a picture of her eyes, her eyes during lovemaking, head rolled back and lids fluttering, breath shallow and rapid, her hands in his hair, on his neck as she pulled him in closer and tighter, harder, and then the slow motion opening of her eyes, her lids matching her slow exhalation.But now that image was gone because when he heard the news, when he heard how she turned and fell, eyes rolled back, his sexual love, any craving, was replaced with an ache, pity, remorse.MoreLess
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