Smiling as he walks out across the gym parking lot, in a light wind beneath the looming gray, Allen muses that he actually enjoys his own stink. Then he smiles even more brightly when he remembers the time when Jamie had told him that she liked his stink too. Shit. What am I still doing in town? This is stupid. Why does she have to be like that? A warmth comes over him, as butterflies arrive in his stomach, turning to goose bumps in the cool air. He should drive down to see her. Right now. Right this second. She would be happy to see him; the argument would pass with his presence since that’s what it was really about. He nods slowly with a verbal, Mmm yeah when he remembers that Jamie will be working until five o’clock today.

Allen takes his keys out of his gym bag and unlocks the door to his old brown Buick. It was a heavy solid car from a bygone era when manufacturers didn’t fret about carbon monoxide and global warming. It’s ridiculous rectangular brown bulk had a certain personality that made Allen always glad to see it; reliable in its cut. He’d had it since he went to college, probably close to seven years now and it was used then. Still, even though he had the money to replace the car, he had not “gotten around to it” just yet. He hadn’t moved on, though the photo from that morning reminded him that the horizon was near his nose. He tosses his gym bag in the passenger seat and inhales the car’s mixture of sweaty velour and coffee.

If Jamie was getting off at five he could surprise her then. Days like today weren’t meant to be spent alone, no matter if she’d told him not to come. She’d said it in anger and he knew she didn’t mean it. He pulls out of the parking lot and scans the restaurants in the strip mall across the street for brunch possibilities. One spot used to be a Jimmy John’s Subs. Now it was the Westside Café. Not that it looked like a café. It didn’t look any different from Jimmy John’s except that it was white when it used to be green with yellow trim. What exactly makes a place a café? The decor? Probably the prices. Allen stops his musings long enough to concentrate on making a left turn onto Lexington. The traffic was light. Not many people were out. Probably the weather from athens banner herald. Lexington was a wide road and mostly flat; four lanes, without too many buildings on either side. Allen rolls down the window and for the first time notices the impenetrability of the sky. The rolls of gray stretch off in every direction. Not a shred of blue pierces the lid. They must go on for miles. I wonder if it looks like this where Jamie is? As he looks, a computerized charade of a satellite weather map appears in his head. There is a label that reads “Allen” and points to a huge swath of Northeast Georgia covered in satellite green clouds and a second label, “Jamie” that is perfectly clear near Atlanta.

He comes to a stop at the intersection of Lexington and Oconee, shifting the transmission into neutral. For the last two weeks the old Buick had been idling funny and at a stop letting the car rumble in neutral kept it from vibrating. Near a telephone pole by the side of the road, idling as well, a homeless man is leaning. He isn’t looking at Allen—just staring at the ground. Allen looks once and then tries to stare at the traffic light, waiting for it to change. Every slight movement made in the corner of his vision has him feeling an urgency to look. There is no one else but him and this shadow. For a moment he considers rolling up the window, but doesn’t want to offend the old man.

The light turns green, shiny and surrounded behind by gray, and Allen shifts from neutral into first gear. A heavy truck speeds past him with a heavy rumble. He glances one last time toward the old man as he lifts his foot off the clutch. This is a low cloud reflex: a tinge of pain at the sight of loneliness on such an oppressive and desaturated day. But now the old man is staring directly at him, the ancient visage long, drawn, and cold, burrowing straight through Allen. The black face’s large eyes are cold white spheres in a seemingly hollow, withered face. Allen drives away, muttering, “Fuckin’ …” and shakes his head.

Read the whole thread: A Low Cloud Reflex

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