Archive of Our Own

You’re on the side of the road wearing short shorts when he picks you up.

“You’ll burn up out here, wearing those,” he says, leaning from the driver’s-side window. It might be on account of you’re pent up, but you find yourself staring especially long at his bare forearm, olive-toned and hairy and wiry. His hands are big, too, veins and knuckles prominent.

“But it’s hot,” you say, not willing to acquiesce even in the face of reason. You’ve only just met him, after all, and he can’t just be telling you what to do.

“Heat’s dry here. Sweat’s gone. Sun, though?” He squints and looks up, through his aviators and past the brim of his slouch hat, as though to ascertain its presence. “Sun’s no joke.” His accent belies his prejudice: the Australian sun is the worst kind of sun. That’s why they wear those hats, you hear. When he squints and grimaces, he reveals an unusually sharp dogtooth. For reasons that are not totally clear to you, you find this charming.

“So are you just gonna tell me everything I’m doing wrong, or are you offering a ride?” you ask. You hope he says yes.

“Suppose I am,” he says, shrugging, and that’s good enough for you. “That all you got with you?” He gestures at your single bag.

“I travel light,” you answer.

“Right.” He pats the door. “Better get in before you fry your skin off.”

You roll your eyes but hey, you just found yourself a ride.

And so you find yourself in the cab of what looks like a custom-made camper van with the skinniest Australian you’ve ever seen. He seems alright, honestly. You thought he was cute at first glance, in a messy kind of way, though now you’re in the same space as him you find yourself examining him a little closer.

It isn’t long before your body reacts to something you don’t immediately perceive, and the tension in you ramps up. You’re actually uncomfortable. You sigh and slouch a little where you sit, staring out the window at the desert landscape and trying to relax; in trying, you fail miserably. Deep breath in. Deep, deep sigh of an exhale.

“Got something on your mind, sheila?”

“Nothing.” You’re a bad liar. Your throat is tight and the pitch of your voice is noticeably higher.

Not that he seems to notice; if he does notice, he doesn’t care. “’S alright. Don’t mean to pry.”

You kind of want him to pry, though—or at least, the part of you that craves human contact does. It’s not like you’ve gone gooey over him, just that you’re keenly aware of a need to touch his body, this man you have known for all of five minutes.

It’s his smell that got you, you realize. Behind all the smells that come with a car, the combination of air freshener (is that apricot?) and the vinyl seats and the coolant on the air blasting from the vents, there’s also the smell of a human body. He’s kinda sweaty, but not in a way that makes you retch: he doesn’t smell like a truck stop or a load of dirty laundry. It’s skin-musk, it’s clothes, it’s leather and oil. It’s an animal smell and something altogether more mechanical mixed in. He smells, you think, like a man.

Yeah, that really nails it down, you think back at yourself.

Never mind that, though. It’s pleasant, and now that you’ve named it, the heat in your chest grows. It’s not just frustration hitting you like a freight train: it’s him, actually, this man beside you, that you’re reacting to.

It’s funny. You’d gone at yourself last night just to get yourself to sleep, but it’s not the same as being with someone else. Not even your dirtiest fantasy that gets you off in less than a minute and sends you straight into unconsciousness after has the same deep, satisfying quality of another human body next to yours, on your wavelength, wanting.

Maybe you could do something about it.

You’re going wherever he is for now, and he follows the winding asphalt through the rocky desert, westward, into the sunset. For lack of anything else to do, you find yourself explaining your predicament to him as he drives: You tell him where you’re from and where, ultimately, you want to get to. “It’s a long trip, but I had to take it, you know? I hate flying and it’s not an emergency, but I can’t stay where I was.”

He grunts assent. “Life’s cruel, sometimes. Deal with it best you can.” He seems to consider something, and then says: “Back in Oz, I’d been out in the bush for about a year but I had to go back to the farm. Problem was the van had broken down and I had no luck calling anyone—no phones, only knew what was happening because of the post once a week. So I walked four hours til I got to a road, and then I plunked down and waited for four more hours. Took me three days to get home after that, hopping in the backs o’ utes and hoping for the best. Dad was ropeable, wanted to kill me.”

“Did he do it, though?” Your idea of a joke.

He laughs, rough and deep. Oh, no, it’s hot. “Mum wouldn’t let him.”

You want to hear him talk some more—about anything and everything. You want to hear him deploy some really ludicrously obscure Australian slang. You don’t care if you understand him. Just give me more of that voice.

But then it strikes you: he knows what it’s like to be in your position, or at least he says he does. To be on the side of the road, baking in the sun, just trying to get somewhere.

So you ask him some more: “What were you doing out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Ain’t nowhere. It’s a place to be.”

“But what were you doing?”

“Hunting.”

You lean back and notice, for the first time, the rifle hanging behind the both of you. You bump your head against it. How did you not see that? Maybe the sun really had gotten to you. You’re actually kind of embarrassed.

“So maybe you’re right. I’m not used to the desert.”

“You really don’t look it. Those shorts are more fit for the beach. You’d get more attention on the beach, too.”

Another opening. “Are you saying you think I’m cute?”

He does not respond, at least not verbally, and not immediately. You look at him hard and can see his face shift, see his grip on the wheel adjust, like he needs his whole body to work with him if he’s going to give you an answer. Finally, he says, “You gonna get upcited if I say yes?”

“I have no idea what that means.”

Australian-to-English translation. “Will you be upset?”

“Why would I?”

“You’d have every right.”

You’re getting impatient. “I’m the one who asked.”

“Then yeah. I do.”

A heat develops in your chest, but a smirk on your face counteracts it. Like you don’t really believe it’s happening. “You’re shallow,” you say, by way of flirting.

“Not shallow, just...” he trails off.

You’re getting to teasing. “Were you perving out over my legs?”

“I weren’t pervin’, sheila.”

You smile, knowing. “But you like them.”

He shoots back: “I was trying not to point it out, but, eh. Not like you’re being shy about it.” He’s making a face like he’s weighing the risks of what he’s about to say.

Now you’re full-on interrogating him. “What, so you thought I was okay with that?”

“You weren’t exactly shy yourself.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“I could smell it on ya. It’s not hard to.”

This should embarrass you, but damn if it doesn’t make you want to fuck him more. “So we’re clear on that. We’re both frustrated.”

“Right you are, darl’.”

And then he stops talking. The conversation has extracted you from your thoughts and put you back in your body, and it tells you everything is fine. It’s not conceited, not greedy, but it’s been primed for sex, and it wants this man next to you. You find yourself agreeing with it.

“What if we did something about it?” you ask.

Another shrug, this one inquisitive. “You good for it?”

You’re not sure how to respond. Of course you want it, want to touch him and feel him around you and smell him, but your inexperience hits you like a dead fish slapped against your face, and you can feel the enthusiasm drain from your body as you contemplate how disappointing it might be.

“S’alright if not,” he says. He sounds a little anxious himself, now.

“No, I—I do. I just don’t really, y’know.” You try and put it simply. “I don’t really know how to fuck guys. I want to, but I don’t know how.”

“You’re a virgin?”

Woof. Do you seem that inexperienced? “No. Just never slept with anyone good. And you might be different.”

“Bloody hell.” He brushes a hand over his face, though he doesn’t stop driving. The road has flattened out, become a straight shot across the desert. “We ain’t even known each other two hours.” He smiles, pointy canines and all, and your pussy throbs harder. “Looks like it’s our lucky day.”

He’s not kidding, and you still can’t believe it. This must be a dream. The atmosphere metamorphoses in a split second. So you are both nervous—were both nervous. You find yourself on equal footing now. No longer do you feel quite like a deer in the headlights, though his eyes still glint and glimmer in a way that both scares you and turns you on. That ice blue, it must be.

You swallow. “I reserve the right to jump out at any point.”

“Smart girl. I’m pulling over anyhow. Can’t keep my eyes on the road with you around. If you jump out, at least we’re standing still.”

“What if someone stops for us?”

“Then they’ll be in for a surprise.” And he stops the van, parks it on the side, even puts on the hazard lights. They tick like a clock, or a heartbeat. He unbuckles, and you do the same. “Start slow, then,” he says. “I’ll say if you need to ease off.” He unzips and takes his cock out. He’s only half-hard and it’s already sizable. Where his underwear is pushed down, dark, thick hair peeks through.

Your heart jumps. You’re honestly way too excited about this, bordering on nervous, though you really, truly want it.

Leaning over, you take him into your hands. His skin is soft against your fingers. You touch him lightly at first and just this makes him harden and grow a little more. He sighs—surrenders, you think—and then, hesitantly but not without enthusiasm, you take him into your mouth. You’re only at the very end of him, not wanting to go too deep, not wanting to choke. He is salty, he is thick, and he is already making deep sounds in his chest, the sounds that you really wanted to hear. You know just enough from previous encounters like this (and there have only been two) to keep your teeth out of the way. You also know just enough in your mind that you like this guy well enough to give him more than you have others, so you endeavor to make good use of your tongue.

“Ah, fuck, you’re a sweet girl.” He takes one hand and puts it on your head, fingers in your hair—and is he pushing you down? He is, but only just so, not enough to be truly forceful. You like his hand, big and warm and with fingers you’d love in your pussy. It’s encouraging enough to make you take more of him. You bob up and down on him, lavishing as much of him as you can with as much attention as you can. What you can’t fit in your mouth instead gets your hand, moistened with your own spit. You lick and suck and stroke and feel his belly and chest and hands, see him adjust his thighs. He’s so reactive and you’ll be damned if it doesn’t make you feel like you’ve done something right.

Then he interrupts. “Development, love.”

You make an inquisitive noise around his cock. 

“I’m gonna have to fuck you.”

You pull off him and catch your breath. A trail of saliva connects you to him, briefly, before it drips and breaks. You look at what you’ve done to him: his tip is red and swollen. “Jesus,” you whisper.

“You get the blood pumping,” he says, chuckling. Fuck, you can hear him smirking. “Sit back for me.”

You do so, and he easily climbs over you even in the cramped confines of the cab. He pushes up your shirt and thumbs your nipple and pauses, staring at you. You stare right back. You catch something in his expression, only barely hidden: a hint of inner resistance.

“Hey, are you alright?” you ask.

He mulls it over for a second, but doesn’t move his hand from your breast. “Haven’t been with a lady in a while,” he says, quite plainly. “Need to take this all in.”

“So that’s why you pounced on me,” you joke. “You wanted it from the start, huh?”

“You know it, sheila.” And then he buries his face in your tits, grabs them and squeezes them against his face, and you laugh out loud. His stubble scratches against your soft skin. “You said it yourself. Got an appetite, and you’re a dish.” He reaches down, suddenly, and grabs your bare thigh for emphasis.

“That’s corny!” you squeal.

“’S true,” he mutters, and goes back to your tits, and that just about shuts you up. His thumb across your nipple and his tongue and teeth and lips on your neck is about more than you can handle. You close your eyes and let him lick you and grope him right back. You push his hat off and it falls to the floor of the cab and you grab at his dark hair, latch onto his shoulder, inhale, inhale, inhale. You want him all over you, and then something occurs to you.

You sit up on your forearms. “I want you to eat me out,” you say.

He pauses in his ministrations. “I can do that,” he says, eyes half-lidded but unmistakably looking at you. “Do it right now, in fact.”

He has to open the door to give himself enough room, but it’s an obstacle easily overcome. He pulls your shorts and soaked-through panties down and marvels at you silently for a moment, kneeling a little awkwardly and half-supporting himself on his elbows, but not complaining one bit.

Your breath is heavy. You reach down and touch yourself, literally, sliding your hands along your abdomen.

“Don’t need no encouragement from you, love,” he says, then slides his fingers around your absolutely dripping pussy before tonguing your clit.

That first contact is breathless. Something about it makes you wonder if this is really happening: it’s too good, and he’s obviously done this before. He’s certainly not shy about enjoying it, though you haven’t shaved and you probably need to shower—hey, some people are into that. But his mouth is on you like you’re a sweet fruit and his tongue dives into you. He licks from your pussy up to the nub without taking his lips too far from you and makes another noise from deep in his chest, low and pleasured. His fingers press against the inside of your thighs. His teeth only barely graze you and you remember the sharp, charming dogteeth he’s got, how he flashed him in his smiles, how that alone got you well on your way to bothered. You raise your head to see him at work: even behind his aviators, you can see his eyes are closed, focused and intent, but he notices you shifting and opens them. He keeps eating you out, but pulls back just enough to peek above his sunglasses, make eye contact, and tip you a wink.

Your face gets hot, which is funny because you thought you’d already gotten visibly aroused, but nah, it’s like you’re a teenager again and your crush just smiled at you and your stomach flips and your world is bright and sparkling. Funny that it’s this man, dry and dark, who pushes those buttons. Funny that it’s a fling and you’re not doodling hearts in your notebook over this guy or anything. Funny.

Something else occurs to you. “Hey,” you say, because you don’t think you want to cum just yet.

“Hmm?” He draws back and his lips and stubble gleam with your wetness.

“What’s your name? I didn’t ask.”

“Mick.” No hesitation. Either he’s a practiced liar or he’s dangerously forthright. “You never told me yours,” he adds.

You tell him.

He repeats it out loud. “That’ll be nice to know,” he remarks, muttering into your thigh, and nibbles at your skin like he’s a dog at play.

You yelp, but it doesn’t hurt, and he returns to eating you, tongue still lapping, lips still warm against you. Your eyes roll back involuntarily. You think of those sharp teeth nipping you and realize you’re totally in his thrall now, and that this could actually be dangerous. At the very least, it ain’t safe. A stranger is a stranger no matter how hot he is, no matter how big his hands or dick are or how sexy his voice is. Even if you know his first name now.

It is a risk you are willing to take.

It’s already paying off because he’s putting his fingers inside you now, starts with one but pretty soon moves to two at your insistence. “You think I’m hungry, but you might outdo me, sheila,” he says, but goes back to lapping at your wetness.

You grab back onto his hair and rut against his face. He makes a surprised noise and pops up from between your legs. “You’re too excited. Can’t have you cumming this soon.”

“Mean. You’re being mean. And rude and inconsiderate,” you mock-whine.

“Patience is a virtue, darl’.”

“Speak for yourself, you dirty bushman.”

He lets out a sharp laugh at that, one you didn’t expect. “Sorry, it’s… you sound like someone I…”

“Someone you what​​?”

He laughs again and shakes himself out of the thought. “Eh, forget it.” He sits back. “Reckon we need to fuck.” He tugs at himself two or three times while he stares at you.

You once again find yourself appreciating how sizable he is. “You think you’ll fit?” you say, the idle thought becoming quite urgent.

He pauses in his tugging and looks at you in a way you don’t understand before re-positioning himself just above you. His cock and balls graze your bare belly and he becomes quite intent for a minute. You realize what he’s doing: measuring his dick against your stomach. Seeing how far in he might be able to go, should he go all the way. The end of it touches the dip of your navel.

“You’re kidding.” You’re fairly certain your vagina doesn’t go that far, that things are not arranged like that anyway. But also, that’s kinda hot. As stupid as it might be, you like the idea of this guy reaching that deep inside you.

“Yeah, nah,” he says, and laughs low. “Won’t go that deep.” He shifts away from you, but only a little. You sit up on your forearms and he brings a hand to your face, strokes your jaw and your neck near where he went at you earlier, tickles the shell of your ear with his fingertips, unexpectedly light, so gentle. “I want ya. Wanna fuck ya. But I don’t wanna hurtcha.”

You’re nervous, but in the way you are when you’re about to get given something you’ve wanted for a long time. Heart pounding in anticipation, breath heavy, face flushed, you say: “I want that, too.”

“Whatcha want, love? Gotta be clear.”

You laugh, helpless. “All of that.”

He smiles a little. “I’ll go slow. Be gentle. Allat. I swear.” He says these things so casually; you still cannot detect an ounce of insincerity with him.

It starts teasingly with the head of his cock at your entrance, prodding against you, as though you are not ready. Maybe it’s a small bit of payback for how you had teased him yourself, earlier. But soon enough, he slides into you, and the concept is enough to make your eyes water, but his girth and warmth tip you over into dumb pleasure. You can fit him. He’s fucking you. And anyone could come driving down and see him doing this to you, and it feels so good that you don’t even care. True to his word, he goes slow, pumping in and out of you just enough so you can feel him stretching you. You swear you can feel each of his veins. Maybe you’re just cock-drunk; maybe you’re just making things up. But it still feels outrageously good.

“Oh my God,” you say.

He does that half-smile again. Dogtooth poking out. God. “You like it?”

“I love it,” you sigh, and you rub your clit just as slowly, in small circles. You close your eyes and breathe him in and already you feel yourself pulsing, feel your thighs twitching, though it’s quick and light and you’re still not close to cumming.

“Got a good mind to fuck you senseless,” he says, though he does not thrust any faster or harder.

“Thought you were gonna be gentle,” you say.

He moans. “Your snatch is too good, darl’. Be a shame to give you any less than a screamer.”

“Maybe… maybe I want that, too.”

“You’re a right cooperative girl. Good girl, letting me fuck you like this…”

That he calls you “good girl” after you poked at him so much earlier, and that you don’t object now, that you soften under his words of praise, tells you something new about yourself.

He shifts, angles, and fucks you a little faster, a little harder, still slow enough that you can feel him in detail inside you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, thrusting into you mindlessly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Your brain is melting for sure now. The only thing you can say is “yes”, and you say it over and over again. It’s just that for a minute, coasting on the high, “fuck”s and “yes”es, half-naked, completely without shame, fucking like dogs in heat. The pleasure surges through your body. You spread your legs and brace your feet against the seat and dashboard so he can get in as deep as he can; you can feel the ridges of the van’s construction through the soles of your shoes, and it makes you feel all the more adventurous. He braces himself, too, changing every few seconds so he can adjust his angle. He gets in you deep, gets a spot that makes you sigh as though in relief. You do not move your one hand from your clit but your other goes up to touch him—anywhere, really, down his side, across his chest, up his neck, over his ass. You grope at him and marvel at his skin beneath your fingers like you’ve never touched anyone before. He touches you, too, one hand on your breast while he gropes at the seat back with his other hand.

Maybe you’re hallucinating, but behind all the noise you think you hear a car approaching. You wonder if they see you, or if they wonder what in heaven’s name is going on with that van.

Mick notices something you do not and reacts immediately. “Ah—stay down—”

And there’s your answer. He stops thrusting but doesn’t pull out, lowers himself so he’s hidden from view. You stay as still as you can, but you miss his cock moving in and out and your pussy throbs for want of stimulation. You try not to let your momentum fizzle out. This absolutely cannot be the end of the encounter. The car, or whatever it is, passes without incident, only a brief woosh and a shudder from the van.

“Inconsiderate,” he says, presumably about the other car—presumably joking—and immediately resumes fucking you.

It feels just as good to you as it did before you were interrupted, maybe even better. He gets back up to speed in no time. Your breaths are short and shallow, and both of your bodies are tightened up and ready to explode. You rub harder, faster, your cunt slick with your own wetness. Your thighs tremble more fiercely, and then as if by accident you feel yourself approaching climax, so you chase it like you’re going to lose a million dollars if you don’t cum on his cock—

And you’re there, spilling over, thighs and belly and chest and throat and face all electric and aflame, your toes twitching, squealing wordlessly because the pleasure has chased all words from you. You keep tightening around Mick and you think to yourself that you could easily squeeze him out with how hard you’re cumming, but he doesn’t let you, just keeps fucking into you. The sound of him inside you, flesh against fluid-covered flesh, reaches your ears like an alarm. Your climax dies down and you calm yourself, but are not overstimulated, not yet.

He grabs your hips and leans in. “I’m real close,” he growls in your ear. Hot breath on your neck, his sweat and yours evaporating in the air, your scents mingling.

It’s a split-second decision. “Cum on my tits,” you say.

He pulls out and without missing a beat climbs up to you, bending over your half-naked body and jerking himself off. You already miss him inside you. It’s not long before it’s over for him: he comes over you, onto you, hissing with pleasure. “Gorgeous, bloody gorgeous.”

“Oh my God,” you say again.

Mick, it seems, is a little too tired to say much of anything, except: “Camper.” He gets up off of you. You realize he means for you to follow him, so you grab your underwear and shorts, hurriedly slip both of them on (nearly mixing them up in the process), and slip out into the dusk and creep around to the back like you hadn’t just been thoroughly fucked and like there isn’t semen on your breasts. You’re mildly amused at the thought of being too fucked out to walk.

Inside, you find a room that is theoretically bigger than a closet but feels like one anyway. The ceiling is so low that he stoops. He is in front of the sink, running water over rags that look like they’ve seen quite a bit of use. He’s squeezed one out and used it to wipe himself down, starting at his face and working down to his cock. He’s removed his overshirt, taken his aviators off and hung them off the collar of his undershirt. You like how he cleans himself, even how he puts himself back in his pants and zips up. Those damn hands. You wonder if this counts as a fetish.

He hands you a damp rag and you copy him, getting his cum off your chest before wiping between your legs. It’s hot and dry enough that you don’t need to wipe the wetness away. You pull your shirt down over your breasts, opt to wear your underwear inside-out, and replace your short shorts.

“You’re gonna want this.” Mick holds out a mug, sits down at the tiny table across from the sink. He drinks from it himself, then holds it back out. A trust exercise. “Only water.”

You’re parched, so you sit down across from him and take it from him and drink, and yes, it really is just water.

And oh, yeah, you’re back in the real world.

You allow yourself to process the absurdity of the situation. This man, who you only just met, has not only had his cock in your mouth, but has fingered you, licked your pussy, fucked you, and come onto your tits. You hope you’re not pregnant. Can you get pregnant if he didn’t come in you? You will probably never see him again after he drops you off. It’s like your encounter transpired in its own little realm with only the smallest, most tenuous connection to real life. Not like a dream that dissipated, but like you were in your own little dimension, so obsessed with one another you were; like you and he were the only real people in the world. And it had happened so quickly!

“Are you okay with all of this?” you ask, not wanting to get into the finer details of your mental state.

“What d’you mean?” he asks right back.

“With what just happened,” you say, and then add, a little wistfully: “And the fact that we’re not going to see each other again.”

“You don’t know that,” he replies. “Small world, ain’t it?”

“Not small enough,” you say, and suddenly life is tinged with sweet sadness.

You think about what it would be like to stay. You think about canceling your plans and going wherever this guy does. You think about sleeping next to him in a hotel room or in a tent or in this very van. You think about sex underneath the stars; you think about morning blowjobs. You think about him making you cum in ways you have not considered before, not with other people involved. You think about him.

You think about his face and remember he’s next to you, still, so you just look at him.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks.

“I want to touch you again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And you get up and squeeze next to him and touch him again. You run your fingers along his shoulder, up his neck. You gingerly touch his jawline, feel the stubble there again, scratch the side of his cheek. You run your thumb over the crest of his cheekbone, swoop over the shell of his ear. You notice now a scar, a thin cut on the side of his face that’s healed cleanly and mostly faded. Where did he get that? Will he tell you?

You look into his eyes. “Where are you going, really?”

His gaze meets yours for a split second and your stomach flips all over again but he averts it quickly. “Nowhere good.” The words you knew were coming but didn’t want to hear.

You try anyway. “You’re not taking me all the way there, are you?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing doing.”

“Nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“Nah.”

Silence here in the back of the van.

“Bit on edge still, sheila?” he asks.

“I’ve heard nasty stories,” you say by way of explanation. “About hitchhikers who get killed and all that.”

“I ain’t here to kill ya.”

“What’s the gun for?”

“Not for you.”

“That means you’re not going to tell me, isn’t it?”

“Not authorized.”

It’s like you have peeked through a keyhole only to have your vision blocked before registering what was even behind the door. As though to console you for not being able to know, not being able to be in his world, he runs a hand through your hair.

You close your eyes. “I’m going to miss you, Mick.” You feel like you’re going to cry, actually.

“Like I said, small world.” He kisses your temple. “Could run into ya again. Out here or somewhere else.”

You smile. “Maybe California will be bad enough that you’ll get to go there one day.”

He rolls his shoulders and opens his mouth like he’s about to deliver the punchline to a joke you didn’t realize you were setting up. Then he gives up on it. “You’re too sweet to me,” he says.

“Tooth-rotting.”

He smiles and looks askance, maybe out the tiny window at the darkening sky, maybe not. “World’s gonna be kind to you, sheila.”

“You were. Kind, I mean.”

“Not like you need.” He pats you on the shoulder. “You’ve got a destination. I promised I’d get you closer. That’s the best I’ll do.”

The rest is out of his hands.

Five months later, when you’ve been in California for a while and met your obligation, you have a dream. You are somewhere in Malibu or further north along the Pacific Coast Highway, on a cliff overlooking the ocean. It’s some amalgam, you know, of photographs and post card pictures and romance novel images you half-invented, but it’s yours. It points to something. Most dreams do.

In the dream, you know Mick is watching you. His name resurfaces first, and with that is the recognition of the memory, which you have toyed with in your waking life privately. You know in the dream that he is not with you, but that he sees you as though he is watching a film, or peeking through a telescope. Maybe through that high-powered scope on that big rifle of his. You cannot see him, but you can feel him. His presence surrounds you.

Is he coming to get you? Or are you another kind of target?

You wake up and you wonder if this is what it’s like to be in love.