/lit/ - Literature

>>7893628
John scanned the mountains in the dark. There were a few lights in the distance and the chirping of crickets. It was vast but they were warm and safe in the car. John, the man, rugged and old, in his battered jeans and a beer can in his hand. In his shaking hand. As he tried to calm himself, he looked sidewise. The girl was soundly resting. Her bare soft foot touched his leg. His heart beat faster and blood rushed to his loins. He gently moved her away from him and then took a beer. He took a swig from the can and absorbed the landscape and the darkness and the gentle hum of the wind and the rhythmic buzzing of the insects and was lulled to sleep.

When he woke to have his morning piss and cigarette, the girl was no longer lying there were she had been when he had fallen asleep. John looked around. The landscape was beautiful. He pissed next to the car and lit his cigarette, breathed heavily, patiently waiting for the girl to return. She came out of a bushes, her lightly freckled face blushing as she saw the man standing by the car. Her dirtied dress clung tightly to her small body.
Morning, he said. And yawned. What a beautiful day it is.
Morning, the child replied.