The chase. Part five.

It was when she was left alone because even the last guy of the county police had left, in that precise moment she had begun to think about it. The word that came to her was a winch. Because from that moment onwards, and gradually for more and more woolly and then subtle hours, she would have to take care of that track, and make sure to rebuild everything in the right way. We told you that for her was like a first date. Then she went in with felt shoes in another person’s life, and carried behind the fallen leaves of tradition, and everything could be velvety as steep. She knew it. She first thought about his  legs, how they should be or how they should have been. Then she went back to his torso and thought about how he was wearing his trousers, whether tall, like James Stewart in the Western or the low, fashionable that had matched in time with what was the new air he pulled, then thought about how he held his arms, If he had ever been in the boat and things like that. Sure she needed more to figure out who he was, not just a partial track left on pine needles. As the street led her to the nearest cafe, Clayton thought that Clayton had already taken notes in his place, before drinking the second coffee of the day. But one thing she knew: he was traveling lightly, and he had footwear that was completely flat. He had only occasionally slipped over those pine needles, and that from that point he had immediately taken off. The cafe, which was actually a hot table full of truckers soaking up their Oregon Trail in that morning’s keen coffee, looked right at her with a glimpse of the sun, dirty because the windows in that place were dirty, she was dirty The face of each of them, and to throw on her, which was just beyond the threshold, the veil of sadness of the past. Being there in how to be stuck in a Hopper picture, she thought. And in fact they were somewhere in the middle of nothing, and there was nothing else she could do if she did not call BJ. – Wait for everyone to go, take another coffee and then get rid of it. The rest, what you have to do next, you know it too well. Call me only when you know where he/she is going. Then she made the way backward, and the wind had retreated, leaving a cordial air, and iron visions.

She went back to the track, and looked closely at the ground. The compression had been almost completely leveled, and she was almost at the starting point. She needed to find something else, or at least to be sure he had dropped from that full slope of Douglas Firs. It was a difficult terrain, and she already knew that he was walking lightly, and that he probably sailed on that delightful and sad bed. He advanced slowly, and you said that he really had the voodoo in his walk, but she needed to see better, because she would then have the midday light in his eyes, and as weak as the arms of an old picker Of cotton, that light would cover everything. She suddenly pulled the teeth up and here she was: a tiny slid would say, for her she was a drag, and she straightened at the bottom of that slope. The Douglas Firs seemed to be throttling her, not even found in one of those sweats on the coast of New Zealand, filled to the brink from the high tide water that came as an elegant appointment.

All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017

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