Joaney Lee had not had a shower in at least two weeks. Her long hair hung like heavy Spanish moss, unwashed, greasy, parted down the middle, with a sporadic accumulation of fibers and crumbs. She perched her frail frame on the all-in-one environmental comfort unit under the window of the Whispering Sands motel room. Peering out, she concentrated and waited for Billy Rae to return. The old room was an entanglement of human smells that few people encounter these days, especially city folk. These were the lingering fragrance markers that told the history of the room without niceties—not even the benefit of an occasional air freshener to attempt a fresh start. No windows opened, and the door was always to remain closed. It was too hot to leave, she had no shoes, and there was nowhere to go anyways. Joaney Lee knew that people lived out there, around and beyond, but she couldn’t think of how their situations would look different. Most everyone she ever saw was dried up and dusty, like human jerky, sitting in the arid, sun-bleached dirt. She hoped someday she would see fresh people, well, more than just one or two at a time. Youth didn’t make them fresh. They may not have been encrusted in dirt and sweat, but they still stank of sweat, cigarettes, skunk, and sin. That was the essence that permeated the walls of the room and stuck to the fibers of the carpet.

Across the dusty parking lot, there was a small, dried-up, pool with metal umbrellas that had once been colorful and modern. They were rusty and rough now. Just looking at them and thinking about their texture made Joaney Lee’s skin prickle and her head sweat, but she must remain focused on Billy Rae’s return. Like he said, she must think about every step, each one, and imagine watching his movements exactly, down to the second. If she lost focus and missed even a moment, it could derail their plans and cause him to make mistakes. She was his psychic guide through the process, his lookout, and he depended on her to get him back safely. She was his “lucky treasure.”

Joaney Lee’s feet were frosty cold, so she tucked them under the hem of her thin, long, white, cotton nightgown. She would not dare change the settings on the air conditioner. No changes. That would mess everything up. Billy Rae liked things just so, and Joaney Lee would comply because her needs were small and she was dependent upon his return. He often reminded her that she would be taken care of, so long as she reciprocated, and took care of the simple but important tasks that only she could.

Joaney Lee swallowed time in 30-second increments, allowing her saliva to build and her focus to wander only to the small incidental things that did not deter or distract her distant observation of Billy Rae. Sometimes she would see what he was looking at, or attempt to feel what he was feeling, moving from first person to omniscient spectator. There was a tv in the room, but she had never bothered to see if it worked. Billy Rae and Joaney Lee didn’t trust electric boxes of any kind, and Billy Rae had told Joaney Lee that not only would these contraptions get in the way of her visions, but if she could see into them, others could see out of them. It was a two-way street for monitoring and controlling.

At her window perch, Joaney Lee was careful not to make sounds or motions that would be detected from the outside and limited her view to a pin-hole prick in the thick plastic coating on the light-obliterating motel curtain.

Traffic was an unfamiliar, single car that sped into town smelling of northern spaces and ozone. The driver’s door opened and a short man stepped out, intending to head to the trunk, he reconsidered. Leaning back into the car, he asked, “You ain’t got no bags?!”

From inside the vehicle, a figure exited and rose. It was a protracted emergence, as the tallest man the landscape had ever seen unfolded and stretched himself toward the open sky. Buffeted by the wind gusts, he wobbled slightly, rocks and sand scraping the ground under his worn boots as he stabilized himself. He perched a too-small Stetson on his head, searched his shirt pocket for his toothpick, and walked away. “Nossir.”

Can we start over? My heart is hurting and my eyes are tired and dry. I am too sentimental about firsts and lasts, and have been in a lethargic state of dread— ignoring the future that is at my door. The future where you leave, and I live without hearing your footsteps and doorslams, complaints, teasings, and tales. I understand that we do not get “do-overs,” but perhaps I can explain my story? Stories? A start-again where I can hear yours, and listen—better. There are so many. So many reasons for why I am, for the things I did and did not—so many things I could not do for you. There are so many misunderstandings that I might right, but you are too far away to hear my voice, too busy with the excitement of futures and with ears trained toward possibilities. I am neither monster nor saint, but I meant more than well…Rather, I meant for more.

Can we start over? I keep losing time. It weighs on me, and I waste it—fritter it away with fretting, anxiety, and the distress of endless “what ifs”. Can we start over from the first first? Can we meet again for the first time? I want to get it right. I want to meet you fully, not exhausted from pain and circumstances and not nervous about all the everythings. I want to meet you again, but let’s replace loneliness and uncertainty with overflowing confidence, love, hope, and joy. A new meeting without fears of other eyes and voices.

We only get one chance, yes. I know this. But can we slow things down? I wasn’t ready. I’m still not ready. I am still reeling from the too short distance between the first and last bedtime stories. I am so many steps behind that I cannot catch up, and now you have well outpaced my stride—a red shift in my planetary orbits. And so it goes.

Time is the sneakiest thief. I miss you already, but you have so many places to go, so much to see, and so many other wonderful yous to try on and to be.