The Meadow 123 colorized. Walk with the waitress after her shift along the highway ridge, her feet raising red dust among pale-corn grass. We don’t see the action—ripples of heat across town sketch what’s occurring. The deputies settle their coats to cover their guns; the hero takes station some place with a view; his girl leans from her window, six minutes from peril. The plot’s thin as a screen the waitress says: it’s nowhere unusual. She tells me, “Things matter just when they matter. Tomorrow won’t be the same.” “Should we be scared of tomorrow?” “You be scared,” she says. “You freeze if you want.” As night fills, her colors quiet down—not lost completely. Distant starlight soaks grubby pink from her uniform, her throat flares with rusty, sore-looking rashes, like some abrasive is in the air. Watch the light, slow-seeming at distance, gather pace as it pulls the sky in its slipstream, twisting and whirling down on our quiet town. “No one asks: Why Me?” The waitress catches a little silver excitement from the light. “Everyone hates that it’s them. But they think it’s random. That reassures them. To think it could be the next town or some place else—reassures them. No one wants to believe they’re located exactly.” Here in the unreserved seating, as the usherette takes another drink, I lean back to catch her attention. To share a swallow, maybe talk. But she sees my arm on the seatback, and hustles herself up the ramp and through the curtain. I leave with the scene canted on jagged strings. “Will you tell them?” I call after. “The hot water?” She flicks round, damp yellow from hallway lights. “You’re missing the picture.” “It’s not what I paid. I bought romance.” “The program is subject to change. It’s cold outside.” “It’s cold in here.”
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