by Jules Archer
She left her husband for the hog.
Or maybe it was Carl with his bald head and fat wallet. Carl and his leather jacket with its frayed patches and military pins. He bought her a drink in some roadhouse on the outskirts of the frail town she called a home. Slapped down a hundred dollar bill to buy her a Miller Light. Yelled at the waitress for bringing back Budweiser. They danced to Three Dog Night and when they were done Carl introduced her to his bike. They took a ride and she never came back.
Now, her hair tangles in the whipping wind so she cuts it short. Spiky. Carl gets her a leather jacket complete with her own pin. She flips the collar up, laces her boots tight. They follow Carl’s motorcycle club all over the southwest, seeing desert and red rocks.
She and Carl stay in cheap motels, lay on soft white sheets next to each other. She dangles fingertips on top of Carl’s open palm. He calls her darlin’ and kisses her with a rough beard.
She really can’t be sure why she left.
All she does know is she rides that damn bike so well it’s a sin.
Jules Just Write 