Dan Holden's Creative Writing
She leans back against the side of the truck bed, one arm draped lazily over the wheel well, watching in resignation as he walks across the field, straight across, which is something he would never do, on account of the sprouts shooting delicately from the freshly tilled earth.
He walks away resolutely but not so fast, and without so much as a few degrees of movement from his straw cowboy hat. He is broad-shouldered and well-built, but she won’t miss him this time, not after that.
He could have had anything he wanted if he had just complied, but he didn’t.
Did that make him better than her?
Is there such a thing as better in this world?
If she was in town right now half the men on the street, and all of the boys, would be gawking at her great breasts, lusciously presented in a light cotton dress with the buttons open to the waist.
He could have had that.
They all would have fallen for her exposed calf and thigh, and her pretty high heeled shoes.
But he never even looked.
All he had to do, she thought, was to take the gun, take it and kill that bitch of a wife, that maternalistic baby-making church midget with her shreaking laugh and her wiry hair. Just one shot into that heartless little chest and it would be over, and she would be his. But he didn’t take it.
Didn’t even finish his Coke.
She picked up his bottle and threw it at him, but he was too far away. Inspired, she picked up the other half-empty bottle and threw it, drew her gun, and shot it before it hit the ground.
And when the smoke and dust cleared, she realized that she had dropped him, too. There he lay, still as a pile of laundry blown into the field.
She slid off the truck and stood in the road, staring angrily at the still-hot Colt revolver. And then she looked at her man, or what was left of him out there.
So goddam hard to find a good man, she thought.
An old farm truck piled high with lettuce crates slowly made its way forth and pulled up beside her.
The driver leaned out the window with a half-toothed smile, the best he could manage.
“Can I help you, miss?” asked the old man as the truck rattled to a stop. He was driving alone.
“Yeah,” she said, “hold this.”
She raised the gun and shot him in the throat, then tossed it into his cab and walked away, back to her pickup, hair blowing madly in the wind.
She could probably make it to the county line before anyone would find the old man, she reckoned.
They might not even notice the cowboy in the field for another day or two, she realized, smiling to herself.
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