Oklahoma Gothic

“We need to talk.” She said from the passenger seat. Despite her gentle tone, I knew her next line would hit like a truck. “I’m sorry, but this just ain’t workin’.” I pulled my pickup off the road and killed the radio.   “Let me fix it.” “No, Tommy,” she said with exhaustion, “every time we ‘fix it’, we wind up in the same ol’ rut, living the same moment over-and-over again. I’m sorry.” She twisted the ring off her finger and placed it in the center console. “I’ll drop off everything else later.” What she had said was true; we always wound up in the same ol’ rut. But for the first time, the thought of separation promised more relief than loneliness. “Okay,” I replied, “I’ll take you home.” The officers at the scene said I fell asleep and drifted into the other lane. I remember her body on the asphalt with broken pieces of glass that shone like diamonds—diamonds she returns to me every night with the same gentle tone, “We need to talk.”

Before that night, it had been months since we last seen Henry. He showed up at the Watson Burger joint, wearing a robe, looking like a crazy person and sounding even worse. He was using a walking stick, looked more like a tree branch, which appeared to have the runes of some ancient language carved into it. “It is a secret,” he whispered with a buzz, “I learned when I became a god.”  I chuckled. “When you became a god?”  “I will introduce him to you later.” He said. My eyes went to his patient identification wrist band. “My family dropped me off there.” He buzzed. “May I stay at your place?” I felt terrible; I didn’t want him freezing to death in that stupid robe. “Can I call your folks for you?” I asked. “No, they will not listen, they will not hear me. May I stay with you?”  “Well,” I pretended to consider, “I can’t speak for my roommates.”  “Okay. I will introduce him to you later.” That night as I told my roommates about Henry’s strange behavior, ...