So, where are you going? Maybe, I can help you find it. He knew exactly where she was headed, but if she wasn’t going to say anything then neither was he. For some reason, this dumb thing is not putting me where I need to be. She glanced at the GPS embedded in her dashboard, and thumped it. He watched her fingers fiddle with the gauges on her dash, running across them as she spoke.

Usually, the formality is expected, but this time it wasn’t nor was it wanted. Was she shaking off his touch, his memory, or did she simply not care at all? Vic-Ms. Simply rested her hands in her lap, and sat quietly. With an exhale, her back straightened thrusting forward her small bosom she quickly lifted then dropped her shoulders, but said nothing. God, how could she have hurt him so badly? Goodness, such a simple touch, but it flooded her with so many memories. And really not while wearing stained clothing. What was she supposed to say or do? Eventually, she knew she’d have to face him, but not after nearly fourteen hours in a car surrounded by trash from Slim Jims, fast food, and coffee cups. She glanced at his nametag-Kirkpatrick, and back into his eyes several times as she handed him both items. With a steely glare, he waited as she rooted around in her glove box, and then her wallet. She remembered a time when he preferred glasses, but thought they might be uncomfortable under his helmet. When her window slid down, she stared at the beautiful blond curls peeking from underneath the helmet, highlighting brown eyes. The familiar gait of the backlit figure approaching her car knotted her stomach. It was after 2:00 A.M., and she’d exhausted herself turning in circles for the last thirty minutes. The officer dismounted his motorcycle, and approached her. She pulled onto the shoulder of 240 West and waited. The red and blue lights in her rearview mirror followed by short bursts of a siren were God sent.

One five-minute break at a rest stop for a quick cup of coffee-now, staining her gray jogging pants-was turning into a nightmare. The relentless voice pointed out her inability to find the right exit an hour outside of Memphis-her childhood hometown. The navigational system mounted in her dashboard sang at her with every turn.

They had been Victoria Marie James’ main companions for the past thirteen hours. The mountains looming on the horizon shadowed the highway speckled beige by the light of overhead lampposts.

Sweet Victory by Angela Kay Austin