Their room was on the top floor of the historic old hotel. Hardwood with scratches and gouges here and there from years of use and abuse decorated the floor. A canopy hung over the bed made of long, wispy, ghost-white sheets. From the two, huge bay windows hung thick, white cotton drapes that fluttered in the wind and dragged on the floor.

She slept quietly next to him, and peacefully. And now his heart fluttered, the feeling one gets only when you’re young and don’t know better. He had fallen for her, and loved her completely. It was a dangerous love, the kind that left you vulnerable. But he didn’t care about that now. That time had passed.

He propped himself up on one elbow, and carefully turned on his side, facing her. In the pale moonlight shining through the windows he watched her sleep. A cool ocean breeze drifted through the room, lingering for a moment before meandering on. He wanted this moment to last forever.

He turned his gaze out towards the cobalt sea, and sighed deeply. Between the breeze and the pounding surf he could hear her breathing softly. He closed his eyes and etched this moment in time, deep in his memory. Outside the surf pounded on the reef, and hissed as it raced up the sandy shoreline and dragged back over the shoals. Occasionally a heavy wave would break, and he could feel it in his chest.

For so long he had tried to resist, to hold back his feelings, to deny them. She was his drug and he was an addict. Her presence tugged at his soul, drawing him closer, enveloping him. Her power and charm swept him away, and in the end he gave in.

He looked upon her now, once again. She slept on her stomach, arms folded over her head and under her fluffy pillows. Her bare skin glowed in the moonlight; her long, curly locks of hair rustled gently in the breeze. She smelled sweet, and it captivated him. He laid still for a long while, watching her back slowly rise and fall as she breathed. Then, very gently, he reached out with his left hand and caressed her hair.

The cool, December air flowed into the room, and she shivered. Very carefully he pulled the soft, knit blanket up to her shoulders. His heart ached with love for this woman. “I love you,” he almost whispered. Almost.

Fifty miles East of Reno, and ten thousand more to go.

It was just past noon, and the sun was pummeling the paved highway of the dry and dusty Nevada desert. Waves of heat rose from the surface, giving the horizon an eerie appearance. Not a tree stood, nor water flowed; not a touch of greenery. This land was barren, and it felt like death.

The dusty old Ford pickup rolled to a stop on the side of the road, skidding in the dust. The driver’s side door opened and two beaten and abused brown leather cowboy boots stomped on the dirt. The car door creaked on its hinges as it slammed shut, as an old saloon shutter might, neglected through time.

He briefly wondered just how hot it was as he lit a cigarette. He gazed at the flame emitting from his silver Zippo lighter, before flicking it shut with style. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and ran down the bridge of his nose, and stung his eyes. Cursing, he closed them, and turned his face towards the sun, feeling the unrelenting heat and reveling in it. He took another drag off his unfiltered cigarette, inhaled deeply, and opened his eyes.

His left arm was sunburned from carelessly hanging it out the truck window. He always drove with the window down. Especially in this weather, in the middle of August, in the middle of nowhere. He rubbed the soreness out of his elbow and rolled up the sleeve of his white tshirt, up over his bicep and up to his shoulder. He spun around on his heels and leaned up against the truck, and heaved a sigh.

The road was calling, tugging at his soul, urging him to move along and keep moving, as it had all his life. There are men in this world that can never see enough, never do enough, never experience enough. They hear the call of the open road and they must answer. These are not the men that settle down, take a wife, raise some kids, and work. No, he was the type of man that lived life every day, not put it off. These men live fast, and hard. And die young.

He liked to stop in places like this. Way out here, out in the middle of nowhere–it’s quiet. All you can hear is the howling of the wind. He heard it now, and it sounded like his own name, sweet and soothing, like a lover’s call. He took another long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette, and folded his arms across his chest.

He let his mind wander. He was thinking of her again, as he always did. He could never seem to get her out of his mind, his memories, or his soul. And now he could smell her perfume, the kind that made him swoon. He could taste her sweet lips and hear her melodic voice. It was pleasant to think of her, too pleasant. He didn’t want to remember. He was running away from her now, wandering, rambling, moving on.

He shook his head and tried to think of something else. One last drag off his cigarette now. He dropped it from between his two fingers, and watched it tumble end over end down to the asphalt, and bounce. As he lifted his right foot to crush the butt, his joints creaked, an old injury from long ago, from another life, when he was not the man he was today.

He looked behind him, and saw the outline of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. On this side one would not see what one might expect. All the pretty pine and oak trees and coniferous forests are on the Western side. Here on the East side it was all desert, but no less beautiful. This time of day the light played upon its canvas of granite and sandstone, and dust and dirt, and looked as blood. His eyes surveyed the scene before him one last time, locked in memory. It was time to go.

He reached down with his grubby hand and hooked it under the door latch. He swung himself into the cab of the beat-up Ford, and continued his journey, and tried to leave his past behind. As he drove, the beat of the road was like a metronome, and was the same as his pulse.

He sat on the edge of the bed, silent and still. The room was dark except for the scant bit of moonlight that shone through the small dirty window. All he could hear was the sound of his own calm breathing. Once again, it was the middle of the night, and he could not sleep.

His eyes moved about the small studio apartment room, surveying the surreal moon-lit scene before him. It’s strange how different things look at night. How a person can look like someone completely different lying next to you in bed at 3am than they did at dinner hours before, or outside in the sunlight that afternoon. So looked the room to him now. It was an alien landscape, filled with craters of clothes he’s too lazy or too busy to hang up or put away or throw in the hamper, and dirty plastic dishes and empty silver beer cans.

The window next to the bed was open, and the cold, clean winter air flowed into the room and onto his naked skin. The chill of time, catching up to you, as it does to all things that live. It was an uncomfortable cold, too cold, and yet he sat there unmoving, unflinching, in the middle of the night. Thinking.

He lived alone. He had never been married, didn’t have any children. He didn’t have a girlfriend, or a fling, or an interest. He was alone and he liked it that way. Alone with his memories and dreams, and thoughts and empty beer cans.

He was thinking of her again. He felt the weight of life bearing down upon his heavy heart. He drew in a deep melancholy breath, and exhaled. He was wide awake at 3am in his very small apartment, wishing he was somewhere else, with somebody else, in another time, another life.

His eyes moved over to the neon blue glow of the digital alarm clock. 3:01 it read. He had to get up in three hours. He knew he needed more sleep. But he knew very well he wouldn’t be slumbering any more this night. He’s been here before. Many times in his life he’s been here before. Unable to sleep, this thoughts consuming him, unable to turn his brain off. With another sigh he stood up, knees and ankle joints cracking and creaking. He cursed and began his day.