By AIDAN CAHILL
Rain-slicked desert highway. Thick and heavy air. Petrichor. Mm.
Someone jabs their thumb out on the side of the road. Olive green headband. Wicked shades. Early 20s, she’d be a model in New York, just a drifter out here. Who is she, anyway? Should be a bigger deal than this ragtag hippie straight outta Woodstock.
I stop. She says her name is Ithaca. I say, like New York? There it is again, Empire State similarities. She can’t be a local, I tell her that. She nods. Her mouth is eating itself. What gum?
She asks me my name. I tell her, Barb.
Hop in.
Yellowed Best Western on the side of the road. We’re both headed west. Me for work. Her for school. I drive. She dances. Fleetwood Mac as we pull up. Room for two.
What a cool friend I’ve met. We chit-chat, talk the latest Cosmopolitan fashion. You know this look? Jennifer Aniston that? Order room service, I mean, it’s ten bucks. The best they’ve got is rotisserie.
We eat a thigh each in bed. Ithaca makes a mess. I flip through channels. CNN? She hates politics. History Channel? Nah, it’s on commercial. Wendy’s has breakfast now.
Which doesn’t sound bad, don’t get me wrong.
When she leaves the bathroom, her towel hangs a little low.
“Good shower?” I ask.
“Yeap. She purses her cherry lips. “Haven’t had one in forever.”
“Well.”
One thing leads to another. We’re not tied to shit. YOLO. We fuck. We’re done. We sleep on different beds.
But I like her, this one. Five stars. I sink into the ultra-soft motel pillows that probably would ignite lime green if I shined a UV light on them.
But ignorance is bliss, so I don’t think about that as I fall asleep. If I can’t see it, it can’t hurt me.
She’s not a snorer, thank god. But she purrs lightly in her sleep. I hear it when I wake at 4 am. She sounds like a little tabby kitten. I’m in this pitch-black room, and goddamnit, I can’t fall back asleep, but goddamnit, I’m okay with that too.
Wednesday we hit the road by seven. No reason to stay. Nameless kings blur by. Morning flows to midday. We blast the radio to 100.
Ithaca pulls out a crumbled book and starts reading. You know the vibe: legs kicked up on the dash, sandals crossed, worn leather chair leaned back. Have you heard of Athena?
LA by nightfall. She lives in some dorm off campus. We wind through a high-walled labyrinth. With each turn, my glow dulls. Face falls in evening shadow.
Eventually she tells me, here.
We get out. The engine purrs behind us, a sleeping kitten, a hollow gate. LA is a universe of its own. Nameless, haunted, I’ll never know it. Not this star system.
We’re on a doorstep now. Faded lantern light. Want to come in?
I tell her no.
It’s a little sad, talking to a ghost. That’s all Ithaca is now. Another fleeting desert rainstorm, in one moment and out the next.
We stand. Numb. The air is so balmy, I hug myself.
“Well.”
She takes my hands in hers. Cherry nail polish. Her shades wink. “Thank you, Barb.”
Thank you. I actually say it back.
The girl who would be a model in New York left her headband in the car. For a moment I look back, then I hold it tighter.
My rear-view mirror looks awfully boring. Simple knot. Her headband smirks back.
I rev up the engine. A tabby yawn, and it stirs for good.
The road doesn’t end here. I have places to be. Ever further, ever west.
If there’s one thing I’ve come to learn, petrichor only lasts a day.
Writer | Aidan Cahill ‘28 | acahill28@amherst.edu
Editor | Odessa Ikels ‘28 | sikels28@amherst.edu