Feather slid her backpack down her arm, smiled and walked on air toward the open door. “Real gent, hey.” She tossed her pack in first and sprawled across the sun cracked leather. Billy closed the door and looked all the way down her and wondered what kind of creature could be found on a lost highway in South Georgia. Still lucky, he thought.
He trotted around the back of the car, got in and said, “Savannah it is. Ever been?” She just smiled and dug in her bag for a pair of heart shaped sunglasses with cherry red frames and slid them on and a memory swept him away. He’d seen them before, a long time ago on a pretty little child at the county fair. She was maybe seven or nine and so was he. He had fallen then too, as soon as he saw them gleaming in the sun behind a cloud of pink cotton candy at the house of fun. He had led her off from there and behind the trailers and into snakes of electrical cords that hummed, vibrated and squirmed in the mud after a fresh afternoon rain. He stole a kiss and talked her into a game of; I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. He could remember it well and considered it his, first time. That first pungent smell of sex and what he saw when he put his face down close and touched it. And when it was her turn, she put her little hand out and squeezed it tight with her sticky tiny fingers while the sounds of the carnival filled the air and what it did to him then and what it was doing to him now as he recalled it. And he recalled it often like a secret treasure.
He breathed deep as a light breeze from nowhere brought that familiar musky scent to him now. He looked at her and she shined like the sun on the first day of spring, and batted her lashes at him again as if saying, remember me?