Walking down the road.

I walk down the road.

I always walk down the road.

I move into town nearly unseen and unseeing. I don’t notice the people, what is there to notice? They gloss over my body, older now then when I set out, but unremarkable enough to be nothing at all.

I slide into a booth at the local diner and order myself a plate of eggs and a cup of coffee. I always order the same thing, everywhere I find myself. I eat in silence, no one disturbs me. When I’m done I reach into my pocket and place the exact right amount of change onto the table. It’s always just there, waiting in my pocket, where it’s supposed to be.

I begin walking out of town, “Now I hope you’re not planning on walking. It’s fifty miles to the next town, and you don’t have water.” An old man sitting on his porch tells me as I walk. I give him a glance, just a glance. I don’t need water anymore, I’ll be fine. I keep walking. He tries to stop me with an arm on my shoulder, I move past him without a word.

The air is hot and the sun is high. I watch a few cars roll by on the road I walk down. They pay me no mind. The next town I get my eggs, pay the same way and leave again, “Where are you going?” a young man asks me. He looks at me, and I don’t look at him. I have places to be. “I’m walking down the road.” I explain.

“Well, yes, I can see that. But where are you going?”

“Down the road.” He’s kept me long enough. I keep walking. Same as always.

He follows me for a while. People do that sometimes, some people can’t accept an easy answer. None follow for long. He veers back home after a few miles as the sun sets.

I walk through the moon-lit night. It’s beautiful, I know, the cacti and the bushes on the dead grassy plains but I don’t see it. What is there to see? There’s only step after step. I have places to be, just down the road. I keep walking. I’ll get there someday.