Going Home

We drive through the damp night, pale-eyed suit-man and I, now and then stealing a glance at the other. My knee is bouncing; his shoulders look tense, his arms over-extended.

“My name’s Aspen,” I say.

“Nice to meet you.” His thumbs press into the steering wheel—hard. His thumbnails, in the wet light, are white. “Call me Collin.”

Rodeo Beach, Marin

I want to ask if Collin’s his name, or if it’s just what I should call him—try to be funny. He might take it wrong.

“What’s in Vancouver?”

“What?”

“What’s in Vancouver for you?”

I remember. “I’ve just never been there.” I turn my cheeks toward him, look right at his eyes. “No ties here so why not.”

He signals right and pulls over. The car still, rain bangs on the roof like gumballs on a hollow drum. I don’t move. Collin says something.

“What?”

He leans toward me. “It’s pouring, you’ll freeze.” Over the rain, he’s yelling. “My place—I have a guestroom. Sleep tonight and hitchhike in the light.”

“Okay,” I say. My knee is bouncing. “Thank you.”

The Marin roads are dark, quiet. The town—it’s eight-thirty now—sleeps. We turn onto a windy road, left up a long driveway. His house, a light-colored colonial, stands above us.