What the Future Holds Can Never Be Known by Barry Basden

A cold night in Vermont. I pick up the phone, hear her say my name, and I’m back in a Las Cruces cantina almost a decade ago.

She leans over, sets a Dos Equis in front of me, her warmth against my skin. I’m a little drunk. Her hair brushes my neck. I look into her eyes and soon we’re careening down lost years: A broken fist in Colorado. Explaining to armed men why the Chevy sits halfway inside a San Salvador kitchen. Lemons rotting in a Lodi backyard, wisteria vines wild on the porch. The smell of sex, her salty taste. Someone else’s tomatillos on the stove. Blood, shattered glass. She straddles me, slams my head against the wall, bites my cheek. I close my eyes. She climbs off, growling, goes for something to make this worse. Up and out the door, astride the Road Star, running through the gears, wind in my face, the long ride to here,

where I start to hang up, hesitate, bring the phone back to my ear. Silence. Through a frosted windowpane I can see darkness. Then she says my name again.

Barry Basden lives in Texas and edits Camroc Press Review. His writing has appeared elsewhere.