Fiction by Alison Arthur
She shifts uncomfortably in the deeply upholstered seat. Perhaps she should not have accepted the ride, but it’s too late for second thoughts now.
He pilots the car down the country road, the sun escaping below the horizon in the rearview mirror. There is a smell. Mints and something else she can’t quite place. Perhaps shaving cream or soap. Desperation? Can you smell desperation, she wonders?
The conversation is cordial, but cautious. He wants to know where she is going, where she came from, why she is on the road thumbing a lift. She answers politely, but minimally, not sure of her situation. But he seems more paternal in his concern than intrusive. She begins to relax, sinking into the plush upholstery, her sense of dread subsiding.
He tells her he is a distributor for car parts, traveling between stores. Often with only his own thoughts to occupy him, he is happy for some companionship. When they stop for gas, he returns to the car with packaged sandwiches and juice that he shares with her. “You look a little hungry,” he says with fatherly concern. The conversation is lighter now, and she dozes for a while, hunger satiated and fear assuaged.
When she wakes, it is dark. She is unsure where they are. A backroad with no street lights, swirling mist caught in the headlights in the chill night air. Noticing that she has stirred, he chuckles and says, “Nice to see you are feeling so comfortable. Guess you have decided I’m not a serial killer.”
She straightens herself in her seat, shaking off sleep, and turns her face to him. “Oh yes, quite sure,” she replies. “After all, what are the chances there would be two of us in the same car.”
Alison Arthur is an emerging flash fiction author residing in Nova Scotia, Canada. Read earlier work from the August 2022 Issue of The Bluebird Word.
