The Ice Age by Kirsten Reed Page B

sharing hotel rooms for a while now. And we’re practically family. Better than family.
    He said, ‘I don’t want to hurt you anymore.’
    â€˜OK.’
    â€˜I was happier being your humble chauffeur.’
    We piled everything into the car, and when I slid in beside him, he said, ‘Where to, Miss?’
    I vaguely remembered my days as a frustrated small-town bumpkin, dreaming of a promising and colorful existence in the big smoke. Besides, I thought we’d already decided.
    â€˜New York City?’
    â€˜New York City.’
    The words filled me with sort of a sick euphoria. I was destined to have an interesting life after all. What’s more, Gunther did love me, but from the abstracted distance of just wanting me to be me. The optimal me, that is. Fulfilling potential and all that. Just following him around like a puppy dog probably isn’t the best I can do with myself. I guess. I don’t like pining after him in his absences, that’s for sure.
    It’s a long, hot drive to wherever Gunther has us headed next, and I’ve had plenty of time to think. I thought, I wouldn’t be looking like a silly puppy if he loved me properly back. Everything would be OK.
    He’ll probably be dropping me in NYC permanently, after these little trial runs of leaving me stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere for a few days. At least there will be stuff for me to get on with in a proper city. But the thought of him leaving forever is…unthinkable. Surely that could not be his intention, after all this time out here bonding, getting to know each other out here on the road. Unless he considers himself some kind of Buddha master, instructing me until he decides I’m ready to tackle the world alone. Sometimes it feels that way.
    Vampires don’t do that, though. They don’t go to all that trouble with someone and just desert them. You live that long, you see how fucked up the world is, you travel around…you find a friend, you stick to them. You find someone to love, you make them your obedient slave. You bind them to you by sheer need. A loneliness that immense needs to be shared.
    I shot him a look. Me and my overactive imagination! But looking at him there didn’t help matters. He was squinting palely into the sun, looking withered but dashing. Looking every bit like he’d like nothing more than to climb back into his coffin, wrap himself in the satin lining.
    We stopped for lunch at a pizza parlor. I was pretty sure Gunther made eyes at the waitress. She wasn’t even pretty. She was kind of nervous. The food was average. I got a calzone, which was spelled ‘callzoni’ on the menu. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Gunther was being way too nice to that dame.
    Maybe he was just trying to spread himself around again. I’m feeling a little the same way. In a way it’s been nice to stop all that romantic crap; all that touching. I don’t have to worry about what I’m doing wrong, and if it’s going to make him go away again. He doesn’t have to act so guilty around me. Things are almost back to normal.
    We hung around town for a while. The streets were covered with red dust. I sat down by the car and painted bottle caps. Gunther kept a bag of paints in the glove box. He’s a much better artist than me. He came back from his walk and said, ‘Oh, look at you, with your folk art!’
    Damn Gunther has a name for everything.
    Then he said, ‘Little bottle cap miniatures!’
    I smiled up at him.
    â€˜May I have one?’
    I gave him a little happy skull with a bone in its mouth. He cradled it in his palm, and carried it back to the car. We got back on the road and tried to get as far as we could before dark. I rolled a joint. I smoked and watched the land stretch out all around us.
    It looked just the same. The world, that is. The road; the shimmering gray asphalt, pea-green grass, people’s houses,