Ass For Two | Enough

“Phone’s out. Been out since Tuesday. But the stove’s hot and the coffee’s fresh. Come in.”

“Truck broke down?” she asked. Her voice was a low, pleasant rumble, like a contented bear.

“So tell me, Leo the Hauler,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “You haul junk for a living. But what do you haul in your heart? Regret? Anger at Marge? Or just emptiness?” enough ass for two

“You a trucker?” she asked, settling into a chair that groaned in protest.

The pavement turned to gravel, then to mud. The trees pressed in, skeletal and dripping. Then, the truck coughed, shuddered, and died. “Phone’s out

Her name was Betsy. She led him into a kitchen that smelled of cinnamon and wet wool. A potbellied stove glowed in the corner. She poured him a mug of coffee that was strong enough to strip paint.

“I know a man running from something. They all have the same look. Wet dog and bad choices.” She reached out and took his coffee mug, setting it aside. “The storm’s not letting up until morning. The phone’s dead. The truck’s dead. The only thing that isn’t dead in this house is me. And I’m tired of being the punchline.” Come in

“Then sit down, honey,” she said. “It’s a long one. And you’re going to need a second cup of coffee.”