Fugitives – (Writing Practice)

A lukewarm wave of emotion overcomes him in memory of that enduring and bumpy overnight bus journey; the havoc of the uneven dirt paths that sometimes were credible enough to be referred to as roads worked every muscle in their bodies rather knowingly. The lack of space that was further cramped by the entwined habitants was overcrowded with an exotic and stuffy romantic occupant, as if a third presence had taken residence. They lay side by side, sometimes each one of their shoulders would meet, other times they’d swap a spooning, either way they’d be pressed against each other whether by choice or not. Atop the smog of lust was the unseen polluted air that drifted violently in through the fully opened sliding horizontal window, its dirt filled surface a representation of a heavy footed dusty aroma. The journey took them through various states and cities, cities and states; they shared an experience that could not be repeated by them or anybody else. Perhaps other temporary lovers who could not be publicly open about their growing adoration had travelled this exact trip, at this exact time with this exact disregard for the future. Perhaps other temporary lovers had mounted the trail from luscious beach to palm swept beach on winding hilly roads through eerie forests against the will of the opportunistic local police force. But this was their trip, their exploration of lands unknown. He arched himself to fit beneath the claustrophobic ceiling so that his face appeared above the face of his temporary lover, a strip of matted unwashed hair strayed loosely in the dark breeze. Pleasure lasted for a mere few minutes – a microcosm of the romantic span of the whole trip. This brief moment of complete disregard for barriers, sexual or otherwise, was just over four years ago. Such a connection has not since been allowed by the man who desires a unique repetition of events but lives in the rusty shackles of his self imposed stereotype.


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