Ms.

by kdillmanjones

photo (16)

I couldn’t stop her. Hair flew in her face, manure stung her nose. Between tractors and trailer parks, she stormed through The Midwest. A high-speed rail to nowhere.

“How terribly dull.”

Ms. That was all she was to me. Just Ms.

Our car halted right there. Right on Carson’s farm. She could only look over the landscape with a sneer of piss wiped all over her face.

“I can’t buy anything here. Just look at it.” Her hand swept grandly across the farms like she could wipe them out. Pour paint thinner on it and start over. “Who lives here anyway? Who stares at corn and windmills all day?” The piss dripped into her eyes, made her reek.

The horizon changed; the dark, bulbous clouds could bring rain at any moment. “Well, I live here.”

We were face-to-face with the wind farm that she was to take over. We were mano a mano. We were seconds from destruction.

“An’ they’re turbines. Not windmills.”

“Oh, whatever. Take me back to the office. I can’t take this shit-for-weather.”

She never saw it coming. She never cared to notice that the turbines began spinning faster, that the southwest clouds turned to funnels. She started the car and turned on the AC.

“Pedantic shit,” she mumbled. She cursed her way through the alphabet, adding mundane when she couldn’t think of an m.

I walked away, slowly at first. I was meandering over to where Old Man Carson had built his cellar all those years ago. He didn’t have art galleries. He didn’t sip cappuccinos on his way to work. He poured his life into this farm, squeezed every sweet ounce into the soil.

He died with the land, just like Ms.

Pedantic indeed.

photo (17)

 

 

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