By Bobby Warner
I picked her up on a lonely country road, and she huddled against the passenger side door.
“Where you going?” I asked.
She murmured, “Anywhere.”
She was young, maybe twenty-five. She spoke of a hard life and a dislike for people in general. She was beautiful, with golden hair and a movie-star face.
I stopped at a seedy motel. We made love, after which she got up and got dressed.
“Leaving?” I asked.
“Thought you were different,” she said. “But you were worse than most.”
I left, too. Passed her down the road; she didn’t even look up when I honked.
Excellent.
I wonder why he was worse…and why she thought he was different.
good one 😉
Hmm. Lots of questions. Would like to know more. Very good..
Woke up thinking about this today after reading it last night — sign of a good story. Thought of that eerie recurring hitchhiker tale, a female driver seeing the same guy with his thumb out town after town. This might be creepier: the never-ending mediocre one-night stand.
Thanks, John. For some time folks have asked me where I get my ideas. Each time I tell them: “They just come to me and I write them down.” That’s what happened with “Different.”
Exquisite structure.