• ABE: So, you bummed about leaving Clark?
ABE: Yeah, I’m leaving a lot of shit behind. I guess we’ll look back on that time in Boulder as one of those golden times.
The mountains pass around the car, the sun holds still. Abe has a fluffy toy attached to his rear-view mirror, but I’m too fucked up to notice what it is. I try to let the heat pacify me. At last I cross my arms.
ME: We had to leave.
ABE: It’s just sadness. There’s no other word for it.
ME: Sadness. Luckily it’s a 24-hour flu emotion.
ABE: It’s not anthrax. It feels like anthrax…
• We saw the Weapon of Mass Destruction on the way to Santa Fe. It was far off on a salmon-pink mountainside, glinting. A series of barbed wire fences gave scale. We pulled over and got out of the VW bus to stare and were aware of the desert then as if we’d touched it. The sun shone along like weightless breeze.
We didn’t know what to say about the Weapon, except that when we’d been through the last time, it had not been there.
Abe said, harking back to an earlier conversation: “But what I don’t get is where the scientists get the saccharine molecules to synthesise. Cause all I see is a lot of grass and rocks. I don’t see any saccharine molecules.”
We both looked at the Weapon, precise on the mountain shoulder. I didn’t bug Abe about avoiding the frightening issue, although it upset me and made me feel alone.