Blues For The Red Sun

It was seven-thirty and the Sun was only beginning to go red.  The car kept travelling through the endless desert highway, leaving behind mile after mile of sand and dust. Neither of them had spoken for the past few hours. Or was it days? It was hard to tell against their unchanging background.



         She looked out the open passenger window directly at the beautiful desert sunset. She stared at it for miles and miles, as it seemed to lie down on the scorching, barren earth. The sky grew orange around it, as if the blue was being eaten to be replaced by the night which was soon to come. She took another drag out of her cigarette (which appeared to be as eternal as the sky itself) and then watched as the smoke fleeing from her teeth veiled the Sun in shades of grey.



         It was then that he absent mindedly turned the music up, however slightly. It was some 60s rock band whose name he couldn’t even recall (Blue Tear? No that wasn’t it…) but he enjoyed the comfort the background noise provided. He pushed his greasy blonde mane (which appeared to be as eternal as the sky itself) out of his eyes and fixed them on the highway.



         “Don’t you wish it was always like this?” asked her voice through the smoke.

         She wasn’t expecting a response, but for the first time in days (or maybe weeks?) he surprised her.

         “No. I’m glad it isn’t.”

         She stared at him blankly for a while, as he continued to stare blankly at the road ahead.

         “No?” she finally asked.

         “That’s what I said isn’t it.”

         “Yeah, but why?”

         The drummer answered with a quick and almost humorous drum roll, followed by the whole band joining him.

         “Can we change this?” she said, “I really hate Blue Cheer”.

         “So that’s what they’re called…” he muttered.

         She changed the record to some relaxed, almost lazy sounding jazz singer whose name he couldn’t recall (Norah Young? No that wasn’t it…). He was terrible with names, especially band names.



         He threw his right arm over the back of her seat almost unintentionally as he let out a big yawn. She turned to him, cigarette still in hand, smoke still in teeth and scanned him thoroughly with all of her senses. Neither of them had been able to wash in days, but the extreme heat seemed to kill what should have been a fetid stench. His hair was greasier and more unkempt than usual, the old bell bottoms ripped to shreds, and his bare chest red from prolonged exposure to the unforgiving Sun.  She then looked at his right arm, placed timidly behind her headrest and asked tentatively:

         “What do you want?”

         He looked over, slightly puzzled, and upon noticing his arm, answered:

         “Oh, I’m sorry miss; I didn’t know I was bothering you.”

         She giggled, “You dumbass” she said, right before taking another drag.



         They kept on driving and she once again turned to the window. The sky was turning darker and the Sun had become but a faint red speckle beneath the scorched, barren earth. She watched as the smoke fleeing from her teeth veiled the stars in shades of grey. His voice broke the silence:

         “We should find a place to stay for the night.”

         The piano answered with a long and beautiful chord which seemed to melt into the hot desert air.

         “Can we change this?” he asked, “I really hate Norah Jones.”

         It was at that moment that she realized the sense in her lover’s response; the Sun was all the more beautiful as it was fading away.