Hungry Heart

Noah stood up from underneath the hood and reached for the can of Schlitz that was balanced on the front bumper of his 72 Ford. He wiped the sweat and grease from his brow with his left hand and then, with his right, he put the beer to his mouth and swallowed the contents in a single swig. He squinted down along the road to where its jagged ruts met up with Highway 160, and barely, just barely, he could see Gabby's figure striding towards.

Even from a distance, he could tell who it was by the three legged dog loping along at a desperate pace to keep up with its owner. And as she came into clearer focus, Gabby's style was unmistakable: a creased brown leather jacket, black jeans, and black boots caked in dusty pink by the redness of the earth. She wore a pair of headphones held together by duct tape that clashed with the dark sheen of her ponytailed hair. Her army surplus bag hung over her right shoulder stretching down to where it met a large knife hanging from her belt. She looked ominous, if still familiar. A few years ago a friend managed to score a video tape player and a copy of "The Road Warrior" from the Mexican Hat pawn shop. Noah laughed. The resemblance to the Mel Gibson character was similar, except Gabby was real, and this wasn't the post-apocalyptic future; it was just Arizona.