Crossroads

by Amy B.

c. February, 2001

Loosely connected to "Open Road"

Meryl swiped a tendril of sandy hair out of her eyes and cursed herself for not getting it cut already. Trying to fit one last box into the trunk of her car, she thought about her hair some more. Maybe she'd dye it blonde when she got to wherever. She had the coloring to go blonde without looking too washed out or, much worse, cheap and tarty. She'd choose a nice warm golden shade, one that brought out the blue in her eyes. If she did it, she'd spring for a professional job and not a home kit.

"I want to keep Mitzi, okay?" The question drew Meryl out of her diversionary tactic, and she shrugged. "She's got plenty of room here, and you don't know where you'll be living yet."

"I don't care, Trish. Keep the damn dog." Meryl smiled insincerely as she picked up her suitcase and put it in the back seat.

"Now, don't be like that. I don't know why you have to leave town anyway. The people here are so nice to me." Trish had a self-involved way of looking at things, her own version of reality. Meryl had recognized this early on, but had been hot enough for her to ignore such a subtle little danger sign.

Meryl herself had the unflinching view of reality that a person acquires after she's been smacked in the face with it enough times. Trish had her family's money to keep folks from caring too much who she slept with, but any associated benefit Meryl had received pretty much dried up the moment she called it quits with Trish.

So yeah... Trish *wouldn't* see why Meryl was leaving town, but then Trish never got anything that didn't directly affect her fluffy little self. She'd keep driving her little red Miata and living in her cute little cottage and making her pretty little flower arrangements, and people would just keep thinking how colorful she was. Why, such a creative girl was sure to have a few idiosyncrasies.

As soon as Meryl had moved into her own apartment, she'd stopped being one of Trish's idiosyncrasies and became that weird girl that nice people just didn't talk to and certainly didn't hire to decorate their *homes*...of all places. What did they think? She was some kind of missionary for homosexuality and if she just got her foot in the door she'd be trying to convert them all, like some kind of Jehovah's Lesbian? Yeah, that's what she worked her ass off to put herself through design school for. Recruitment for the cause.

Now she was remembering why she'd sworn to herself that she'd never live in a small town again. There weren't enough dykes to really put the fear into--or take the fear out of-- the more narrow-minded section of the populace. And wondering why she'd thought the northeast would be so much better than the south. At least in her hometown, the people who'd disliked her for no good reason had possessed three or four generations' worth of animosity to draw from. It was a textured, multi-dimensional hate that was easy enough to reciprocate. Whether she was gay or not was mostly an afterthought.

Maybe that's where she ought to go, home...if there was such a place anymore. Maybe she would just head down the coast and stop in the first city that had a decent gay bar. Of course, that plan might take her clear to Miami. She chuckled under her breath as she locked the door to her former apartment and dropped the keys in the mailbox.

To say the highway was calling her name would be an exaggeration, but now that she turned the idea over in her head--ignoring Trish's self-absorbed chatter--she liked the thought of not knowing where she'd sleep tonight. Not knowing if there'd be a job there or if she'd keep going. She almost thought that it seemed romantic, but quickly changed that to 'adventurous'.

Adventure on the open road. Seeing new places and different faces everyday, as the miles fly by. Spring was as good a time as any for a drive down the coast, flowers starting to bloom, warm breezes beginning to stir. She could roll down the windows and pretend she had a convertible. She'd keep only upbeat rock music in the tape deck and drink as much Coca-Cola as she wanted without worrying about what it was doing to her skin or her kidneys.

She'd have some fun for a change. For once in her life, she'd have some fun that didn't involve or depend on anybody else.

As she started the engine, she looked back at Trish, leaning against the hood of her car. Her curled and sprayed auburn hair, her perfectly matched lipstick and nail polish, and her baby blue cashmere sweater gave her the look of an old-style movie star, and Meryl felt a little pang at what she'd given up. Leaving this town meant never seeing Trish by accident on the street, never entertaining thoughts of calling Trish in the middle of the night when the loneliness overwhelmed her. Leaving meant never going back.

With a last little wave, Meryl said goodbye and put the car into gear. And smiled as she drove away.

The End.