(no subject)
"Shit."
Jack straightens, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at the drawer, frustrated.
"Honey? You seen that gray shirt a mine?"
The tick-tick-tick of the typewriter all but obscures Lureen's reply, but the little Texas voce comes tripping down the hall, cool and sweet and just barely annoyed.
"Last time I seen it it was tossed in the laundry basket."
He'd walked in, dropped the bag, swept Lureen up into a hug and a kiss on the cheek while she'd laughed in surprised delight, before just about running down the hall to Bobby. And when he'd put Bobby to bed, he'd gone into the bedroom, skimmed that damned shirt off and thrown it into the laundry.
That had been almost three weeks ago. Just about as long as he'd been stuck--no, not stuck he wasn't never stuck there, could a left just about any time he'd wanted to, if he'd wanted to--at that goddam bar they said was at the end of the universe.
If he'd wanted to.
"Shit," he says, under his breath. "Guess I lost another harmonica."
No reply, only the ticking of the typewriter, and Jack sits down, sinks slightly into the bed, and rubs at his face.
(If you're goin')
"Shit," he mutters, again.
(go)
There isn't anything all that interesting on the wall of the bedroom, but Jack sits, and looks at it for a long time.
(go)
Turns out, he hadn't wanted to go. Turns out, he'd have happily stayed, bitching around the fireplace, helping out in the stables. It's confining there--too many trees, too many people, no mountains, no rivers.
But there are the horses.
And there's Ennis.
Jack gets up, and goes down the hall, to the closet where Lureen keeps her office supplies, takes out a blank postcard. The message is short, to the point, and he scribbles it, scrawls only "Jack" at the end, before he addresses it:
Friend,
Ennis del Mar, General Delivery,
this letter is long overdue.
Riverton, WY.
He sends it in the morning.
Ain't some things never change.
Jack straightens, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at the drawer, frustrated.
"Honey? You seen that gray shirt a mine?"
The tick-tick-tick of the typewriter all but obscures Lureen's reply, but the little Texas voce comes tripping down the hall, cool and sweet and just barely annoyed.
"Last time I seen it it was tossed in the laundry basket."
He'd walked in, dropped the bag, swept Lureen up into a hug and a kiss on the cheek while she'd laughed in surprised delight, before just about running down the hall to Bobby. And when he'd put Bobby to bed, he'd gone into the bedroom, skimmed that damned shirt off and thrown it into the laundry.
That had been almost three weeks ago. Just about as long as he'd been stuck--no, not stuck he wasn't never stuck there, could a left just about any time he'd wanted to, if he'd wanted to--at that goddam bar they said was at the end of the universe.
If he'd wanted to.
"Shit," he says, under his breath. "Guess I lost another harmonica."
No reply, only the ticking of the typewriter, and Jack sits down, sinks slightly into the bed, and rubs at his face.
(If you're goin')
"Shit," he mutters, again.
(go)
There isn't anything all that interesting on the wall of the bedroom, but Jack sits, and looks at it for a long time.
(go)
Turns out, he hadn't wanted to go. Turns out, he'd have happily stayed, bitching around the fireplace, helping out in the stables. It's confining there--too many trees, too many people, no mountains, no rivers.
But there are the horses.
And there's Ennis.
Jack gets up, and goes down the hall, to the closet where Lureen keeps her office supplies, takes out a blank postcard. The message is short, to the point, and he scribbles it, scrawls only "Jack" at the end, before he addresses it:
Friend,
Ennis del Mar, General Delivery,
this letter is long overdue.
Riverton, WY.
He sends it in the morning.
Ain't some things never change.