(SPRING 2021) The Highway to Nowhere | Claire Beaumont

On the highway, there is no one but us, our battered sedan roaring through the desert and tearing a hole through the silent landscape. The tires scream against the salt-hewn pavement, scattering the lizards who bask on slabs of martian rock a dozen feet away. Behind a yucca, a hare peeks out before retreating to the comfort of the shade. But we don’t see that. All that exists is the groan of the engine, at once an elated and exhausted sound. One that recalls a frenzy of vultures as they wilt to a carcass below; bristling with anticipation for the sweet, warm taste of blood. Riding shotgun, I spare a glance at you. Your square, weathered hand grips the wheel, and the glare of the unobstructed sun transforms its surface into spun gold. You’ve tried to tame your hair by roughly pulling it back into a ponytail, but like you, it refuses to give in, instead deciding to let loose thick strands which you push back from your amber eyes. We keep driving, passing taverns reduced to shambles by the nimble fingers of time. Our radio reception fades in and out, sometimes just loud enough that we can make out the words to a song. We sing along, both out of tune, with voices ground down to their raspy minimum by too many years of saying unimportant things. Through the open window, the desert flies by, reduced to a blur of stone and air thickening in the cloak of dusk. I close my eyes and feel the road pass underneath me, drifting off to sleep to the sound of a story you’ve told me a hundred times. A story I’ll never hear, and a place I’ll never be. The highway to nowhere will reveal itself to you in due time, but I can’t say if I know what’s at the end.