continued.
âYeah.â
âSheâs got her eye on you.â
Clay shrugged. âItâs a friendship.â
âUh-huh.â
âSheâs just like that.â
âWith you, maybe.â
âYou shouldnât be commenting on what you donât know.â
âI know what I see.â
âShe was just trying to offer some comfort. In her way. Just like you do in yours.â Clay watched Byron shift his position. âSheâs with Matty. Our feelings for each other are different. Anyway, you know how I feel about that.â
âWell, Iâm sure youâre gettinâ your mind off her, then.â
âRight.â
âYou need to find some new dolly bird anyway.â
âYou think I wouldnât like to?â
âWhat?â
âFind one.â
Byron grinned. âYeah. Tell me about it.â He held up the ash of his cigarette, burning down. âWhy is it that all we think about is women.â
Clay grunted his assent.
âMakes me kinda mad.â
âNo sense being mad at them. Theyâre as lost as us.â
âIâve seen Laura-Dez a few times,â Byron offered. âSaw her last weekend.â
It always struck Clay funny how Byron pronounced his girlfriendâs name, which was Lourdes. Her father was a dentist who had emigrated from Cuba. But Byron had called her Laura-Dez from their first date in high school, and she had somehow taken to it.
âShe still sweet as ever?â
âShe had some great pot. Took me to the drive-in in her VW van. We watched the
Culpepper Cattle Company
. We laid in the back. She let me strip her right there.â He paused. âHer skin is the smoothest. Pure. But she wonât come near my scar. Wonât touch it even. Sheâs scared of me now. Something. Distant.â
âDoesnât sound too distant.â
âWe canât talk. Like thereâs nothinâ to say.â
âSheâll come around. She probably needs you to talk.â
Byron paused. âWell, talk is cheap.â
âNot all talk.â
âMaybe not all talk.â
Another flush of breeze rippled the surface of the river. It carried off the last orange flecks of ash from Byronâs cigarette just ashe flicked its stub into the water, and they both watched it sizzle and die in an instant.
âYou know, you might as well finish school anyway. Youâve got this far.â
Clay folded his arms. âIâve been hearing that advice enough. Like an echo.â
âDonât sound from your tone like you got sense enough to follow it.â Byron grabbed two more beers from the cooler. He threw one to Clay.
âProbably not.â
âI was watchinâ you out there. Searchinâ the creeks. I saw your face. I saw it cominâ.â
Tapping the aluminum top with his finger, Clay opened his beer and took a drink. âI donât particularly like where Iâm heading now,â he said. âI donât want to go to the city. I donât want to sell stocks. Or insurance.â
âBayâs hurt. Gettinâ sicker. You know those fellas in the statehouse donât give a good goddamn.â
Clay sat fingering his Adamâs apple. âWell, least itâs honest work.â
âThatâs why it donât pay. Donât they teach you nothinâ in college?â
âAnyway, Iâve mostly made up my mind.â
âMostly, huh?â
âYeah.â Clay turned back to the water and studied the jagged moon hovering just under the surface. âYeah, mostly.â Then, turning, he added, âYou know, you could use a job yourself.â
Byron seemed to ponder this for a while. âI hear Mac Longley just bought hisself a new Grady White. Like a two hundred on the back. Cuddy cabin.â
âSheâs a waxing gibbous moon,â Clay said, transfixed by the water.
Byron gulped down the rest of his beer.