Las Cruces

“Can you show me a dream that’s better than mine?” she asked over a whiskey and ginger on a cold spring afternoon in Las Cruces.

This caught me by surprise. She and I had never bothered to talk about such things as hopes, dreams and aspirations. It has always been silly nonsense and making fun of people. I liked the way this could evolve, because honestly, I was growing tired of being nonsensical all the time.

I stared at her sitting there, staring out the window of this shitty bar in the middle of town. We’d never been to Las Cruces before, and judging by what we’re doing now, we probably won’t come back any time soon.

She’s got long brown hair. It used to be short. She cut it one day in a fit of rage. Not mad at me so much as mad with me. Her hands are big. Well, compared to mine they are, but I have small hands.

No makeup today. We got up from our hotel with 5 minutes to check out. So, no shower for me. No makeup for her. The maid was listening to Keith Urban when she knocked on our door at 12:01 p.m. We opened the door and danced out into the hallway.

“I look a mess,” she said.

“Not possible,” I replied with a bow and a kiss on the right hand.

We stumble into the front desk area, holding hands like school kids and skipping about. An elderly couple looks at us. The man frowns. The woman smiles.

“That’s us in 50 years,” I say.

“You think?” she replies, skipping out into the parking lot.

I pay the bill. Grab a copy of the local paper. It’s about 8 pages thick. Bad times even in Las Cruces.

She’s standing by my car now. It’s a beat up Dodge Colt that we picked up for $350 before leaving Phoenix. The object of the contest was to keep driving until it died. And that’s where we’d settle in for a while.

We get in. The engine grinds to life. The radio plays a Radiohead song. I groan. She squeals. The car goes into reverse, I peel out of the parking space, shift her into second -- “no first gear anymore” the guy selling the car told me -- and into traffic.

Before I knew it, she was telling me to pull into this little diner. “It’s got a great view!” she said excitedly.

I looked around. It did have a great view. Of a vacant lot where a building used to be. It was scarred and overgrown with dried up grass and weeds. Someone had left an old ice box in the middle of it. Old as in the big boxy ones with giant handles on them that you have to sling up and pull hard to get them to open. Bet it would still keep stuff cool.

We sit down, order and just stare. Me at her. Her at the view. This is heaven, I think. I wonder what she’s thinking.

“Honey, what is your dream?”

She looked at me with a slight grin. I’d asked the right question, I believed, but maybe at the wrong moment.

“Two kids, a house in the country and a dog,” she said.

“Name?”

“Whatever you like.”

Moments come, and moments go. This moment came and went. Not too long after it, we went as well. There was no moment of “it’s over!” We didn’t drift apart because of jobs or physical distance. Instead, one day we had sex, went to get some pancakes and looked at each other and knew it was over.

It was sad, yeah, but it was nice. I’d like to think that one day we might meet up again. Say hello. Then fall in love all over again. It’s possible I guess. But in this day and age, a lot less likely.

Why? We’re friends on the internet. We still know what’s going on in each other’s -- separate -- lives. Her more than me, since I know I’ve become a bit of an open book to people who shouldn’t have a card to my library. At least not the 24-hour one.

But we don’t talk. We don’t say “hey, how are you doing?” We wish each other happy birthday. Merry Christmas. Nothing else really. Well, when we move we say “hey, here’s my new address!” but we don’t write each other.

Nobody writes anymore. I wonder when the pencil and pen factories will go out of business? It’s got to come, right? Just like the end of the newspaper. Sure, there will still be one here or there, but not everywhere.

But the moment, you can’t take that away. Unless you forget about it. And I never will.