Just No Escaping Them

     "It wasn’t something I considered," Derek said, his hands busy with thin strips of flexible leather. "I don’t think it’s something ya ever really think about. Try it yerself sometime. Just park yer ass and see if ya can think about death without yer train of thought derailing somewhere of the first station." Callused fingers were making quick work of the strips, and what would be a whip was taking definitive form.
     "Everyone thinks about death," she said, huddling deeper into the blood-stained and torn overcoat. "It’s like that everthing’s uncertain but death and taxes."
     "It ain’t more than a passing fancy for most folks," he replied, holding the braided leather taut under a worn boot. "Most of ’em look death in the eye a couple o’ times as kids. Rover bites the wrong bumper. Fluffy chases the wrong tomcat into a junkyard. Stuff like that. Sometimes Momma’s waking ya up and saying Gramps won’t be coming to fish for yer birthday. It’s rarely more than that."
     "Not for everyone," the bone-thin girl muttered. She couldn’t help eyeing him, wishing suddenly for charcoal and paper: the perfect image of the patient, ageless cowboy right in front of her, and nothing to draw with.
     "Nah, nothin’s the same for everyone," Derek said as he tightened the braid. "Jest like ya’ll never find a pair o’ eyes the same, ya’ll never find two lives the same." He shifted his weight a bit, the barrel creaking a little under him. "Fer most folks, and I wasn’t no different, I s’ppose, death’s one of those distant things. Like bad art, ya could say. Ya see it, ya don’t like it and ya look right past it fer somethin’ prettier." Faded grey eyes shifted to her, the flames of the small trash barrel fire glinting there. She nodded to the unspoken question, warming her skinny hands over the fire.
     "I see what you mean," she said, turning her wrists. "Most people buy a pretty landscape, but a few like the icky stuff."
     "Yeah, jest like that. I weren’t no different. I liked the flowers in spring. Never much cared fer the dead o’ winter."
     She nodded again, watching him tighten the braiding, and wondered silently where this conversation was going.
     "I think ya were the kind who liked the flowers," Derek said abruptly, tugging the leather with a faint grunt. "But now ya look at the dead trees instead."
     "They’re hard to miss," she said glumly, pulling the tattered coat closer to her bony body.
     "Ain’t no one ever told ya a man likes a gal with meat on ‘er bones?" He looked pointedly at her over the fire, his hands still on the leather strips.
     "I’ve never been able to keep weight on," she retorted, her pale eyes flashing.
     "Find ya a good man and he’ll help ya wit’ that."
     She snorted, burrowing deeper into the coat. Derek’s leathery face, heavily bushed with tattered grey whiskers, creased in a semblance of a smile.
     "See what I mean ’bout those dead trees? Nobody ever caught a husband wit’ a snarl."
     "How many husbands did you catch?" Her look when she snappeda t him was almost challenging, but he merely chuckled.
     "Probably coulda caught more if I’d been tryin’," he said, testing the strength of the leather. She made a noncommital sound, resting her head on the thin cushion that was her folded arms. He let the moment lapse into quiet while he looped the last bit of braid around his boot. Derek grunted again as he began the complicated knot which would complete the long lash. She shifted her gaze to watch, pale blonde hair falling in her eyes.
     "When ya think about it, I guess the folks that can’t think much about death are the ones that really hate the ‘dea of it. If it’s cause it’s an end, or cause they don’t know what goes on after, I can’t say. Couldn’t tell ya fer sure."
     "People don’t know, and if they don’t know, they’re scared," she said, glancing at the sky. Between the two grimy buildings, a patch of dark blue was showing. "Dawn’s coming." Her breath showed briefly where she’d turned away from the heat of the small fire. She rubbed her nose briskly and held her hands out. He didn’t spare a glance up, but kept working on the knot.
     "Ayup, sure is," he said, tugging on the loose strips of leather dangling from the knot.
     "I gotta go. A couple of people might be wondering where I am." She rose slowly, her eyes downcast, hoping to avoid his gaze. He stopped fiddling with the leather and looked up, his faint grey eyes brimming.
     "It wasn’t something I considered," Derek said, his hands busy with thin strips of flexible leather.
     "I don’t think it’s something ya ever really think about," Briar said in perfect unison with him. Shaking her head, she stomped her feet to get the blood circulating before she walked towards the mouth of the alley.
     "Try it yerself sometime," he said, his gaze on the empty orange crate she had occupied.
     "Just park yer ass and see if ya can think about death without yer train of thought derailing somewhere of the first station," she said, her lips moving sync with his. Sighing softly, she tucked her hands into the oversized pockets of the battered coat and headed along the alleyway. The light of dawn did little to brighten the streets of Paradys, North Carolina, but the medium moved along on her way to the Artistan’s Quarter, leaving the ghost quietly behind her, his lips moving as he braided the leather for his whip once more.