curio by laura ellen scott

 

 

Crimson

Cold bathroom at a rest stop off the highway. Nothing so deep as two drops of blood on a concrete floor. We’ll never get to go to South of the Border. It’s fucking February. Out behind the Welcome Center all the picnic tables and grills are mounded with snow, and tendrils of steam rise from the pet area. It’s magical. The state owns everything right up to the line.

Hands, raw from the cold. “State owns all that useless shit,” he complains. He has no idea. We stopped, no big deal. I got pop, Tom’s brand peanut butter cheese crackers. Tom is the patron saint of stopping.

But my sister has gone over the fence, into briars and pine. Away from dirt snow into old snow. She has no idea.