Death Drive

Chapter 7

Rosy morning sunlight bathed the circular plastic table and wooden chairs arranged next to the dealership's entrance in its warm rays. Naomi was enjoying her coffee, her hair looking like liquid gold in the incandescent glow. Thomas pulled out a chair to join her. The spot had used to look drab, the second-hand table standing alone, covered in stains and soot from an overflowing ashtray, but she had tidied it up, bringing in an umbrella for rainy days and decorating the surroundings with tall flowerpots, the veil of snaking vines issuing from them giving the enclosure an intimate air.

"Cleaning is the least of the ways she beautifies this place," he thought, glancing at her over the edge of his coffee cup while taking a sip, taking in her eyes, lips, flowing hair. He felt a warmth spreading through his chest and was sure it wasn't just the coffee.

Then he remembered how it had ended and the feeling disappeared.

"I heard about yesterday," she said. "Good thing that kid got off with just a scare, but you need to be more careful. I thought you had moved past this kind of thing."

"I know." He had been on the edge lately, even before the attack on the protesters. At first, he had thought it was because of the upcoming commercial, but a thing like that, while annoying, really wouldn't have influenced his mood so much. He felt like there was pressure building, a storm coming. Or maybe the world's march forward and his slow decline had finally started to box him in, so he had to elbow himself some more room.

"If I tell her, she'll just worry about me. I'll just have to suck it up and bear it, it'll pass," he thought, taking a deep breath.

"What have you been up these days?" she gracefully changed the subject, obviously noticing the bleak look in his eye, "You hardly ever talk about your renovations anymore. What about your hunting trips?"

"Haven't found a decent target. Besides I get more than enough cars here in my day job, so fixing them up on my free time has taken the back seat for the time being. And what comes to hunting, the game hears a blundering oaf like me coming from a mile away, so there really isn't much point."

That got a smile out of her. Not like it was difficult, but he felt he had managed to alleviate some of her concerns for him.

"I think you're quite agile for a man of your size and age. Which isn't saying much, but still," she teased with an impish expression.

"I'm like a fridge on stilts. The other hunters drive me out of the forest every time for scaring the prey away."

He tried to mirror her smile, but it didn't reach the corners of his eyes. In reality the members of his hunting group, his old friends, had moved to different parts of the country and even overseas, until only him and one other member had remained. He had been found in his home with a rifle in his hand and his brains all over the wall. There was no message and the death had been ruled an accident. The group had gathered one last time for the funeral and to raise a glass in remembrance of their fallen comrade, only to separate again with firm handshakes and hollow promises of reconvening sometime in the future. Thomas had been the last to leave, watching the dead autumn leaves billowing in the wake of the receding cars.

He had made a few trips to their old hunting grounds on his own, but it hadn't been right. Instead of having a good time like earlier he had felt more like a robot going thought the motions with no personal motivation. He had visited his friend's grave, recollecting their times together as a group and got so caught up in his reminiscence of past glory he had stood in the foot of the grave for hours. Once he had snapped back to reality he had briskly walked to his car and never gone back. Then gun ownership had been outlawed and having to rent a rifle from a shop on the fringes of the designated hunting zone made the whole thing feel too much like a theme park ride, and his hunting trips had ended there for good.