The Stingray’s wheels sped along the highway
as fast as eight cylinders
of Chevrolet engine could carry them.
Cruising transfixed, Malcolm saw the sunset
ignite, subside and flare up again;
approaching, receding, deceiving.
It conjured memories of the Alhambra,
that sparkling white wedding they’d seen
emerging from the Iglesia de Maria Elena
into the embers of a chill February afternoon.
At least Monica had got to ride in a white car.
Striding into the Yellow Rose Saloon,
the first bar they’d hit in downtown Amarillo,
he ordered a highball for himself
and an ‘under the volcano’ for Monica.
They clinked glasses and eyed each other.
Protagonists in different books,
they wondered how many pages there were left to turn
in this serendipitous chapter of collision,
before they lost that loving feeling.
Julian Isaacs