The Road

By Mike Krath

 

I drive this road many times in the dark, but fewer than most. I know not what road I travel now, but it is familiar. There are bushes to my right. To my left, the street is lined with stores that have yet to open. Even though it is night, the stores are waiting to open, but shoppers will never appear.

There's a black cat staring out of the bushes. It has green eyes. Wicked green eyes. Its mouth is half open to reveal sharp fangs. It's positioned to pounce. It wants to attack my car, but I drive by hoping it won't.

The bushes turn to tall grass. The black cat peers out of the tall grass ready to pounce. It doesn't move. It keeps still. It waits until I draw near to attack, but it never moves. This disturbs me. There's an old lady walking down the road. She tells me don't worry about the cat.

The morning light illuminates the green grass and the black cat. Both shimmer in the light. Now there are no bushes or tall grass, but sand and desert plants. The cat doesn't move. It waits, crouching, still. It peers at my car. Its fangs ready to bite.

And the old lady does a jig with her cane while an old man with white hair, wearing a white shirt and a black vest juggles words and names that have no meaning, but appear meaningful, none the same.

 

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