Amarillo by Morning

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Although I haven’t seen it, I can feel it…

Somewhere in Texas, long ago, a man driving a semi truck is in heaven, though he doesn’t quite realize it. He doesn’t understand the fragility of the moment he’s in, and it is this ignorance that grants him grace. Alone on the road, body both numb and aching, with the late night radio as his soul companion– a pure, and honest one, at least– he is filled with anticipation.

Somewhere up the road is a house. Maybe not his, but a frequented bastion of comfort none the less. Warming the seemingly insignificant structure, like the wood stove in the center of it’s living room, is a woman in an overly large pink cotton robe; her smooth, flower petal skin concealed beneath.

Here we have two insignificant and unsatisfied souls in the darkness of the past, set on a collision course of satisfaction. His body yearns for her silky entanglements; hers for his abrasive attention. He stops at one more gas station at 4am for a final cup of coffee, and she puts water on the stove for one last cup of tea.

In twenty minutes, after weaving through some residential streets at lesser speeds than he’s used to, he’ll arrive at an unassuming house; a house like any other; with a lamp burning in a window. The neighbors sleep, unaware of the degree of relative pleasure and happiness that is about to culminate nearby. She’ll hear the engine of his rig arrive, rise from her sheets, and greet him at the door, turning the lamp off as she leads him to bed…