Run

A.N: S.E Hinton owns Dallas. Daughter owns 'Run".

'While I powder my nose He will powder his gums

And if I try to get close

He is already gone

Don't know where he's going

Don't know where he's been

But he is restless at night

'Cause he has horrible dreams.'

He is drinking alone the first time you see him. Seats at the bar are reserved for truckers and out of towners, but you would have known he wasn't from these parts anyhow. Someone like him you would have remembered.
Leather jacket, wispy blonde hair, and a permanent scowl make him hard to miss. He doesn't say much, he's drinking whisky- neat- and he has this presence about him that tells anyone nearby to stay the hell away. Most everybody obeys.
"Evening." You slide into the seat next to him and flash him a practiced smile. He looks up just for a second and manages an unintelligible grunt. "You ain't from around here, are ya?"
This time he looks at you longer- taking in your short blue dress, your long brown hair, and your deep blue eyes. He don't need to know this is the only good dress you own. He turns his attention away from you, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, searches for a light in his leather coat while a smoke dangles from his lips.
"Get out of here."
You're not put off by his reaction, although you guess you should be. 'Dont let somebody show you twice that they don't want you', Aunt Deedee would have said. But what the hell did Deedee know? She died broke and alone.
Instead of replying, you produce a lighter. You hold the flame unwaveringly in front of his face, watching the shadows dance devilishly across his pointed features. After a moment's hesitation, he accepts it, ducking his head so his cigarette meets the light. He inhales and tips his head in your direction. You don't know if it's in question or in thanks but you'll take what you can get.

For a moment it's nothing but his icy blues on your deeper ones. And then he relaxes for some reason.

"I got a hotel room across the road," he says. His voice is low and empty, like his eyes, but you take his hand anyway because it's better than going home to your Mama who hasn't left the house in 4 years and treats you like a slave. You feel the eyes of the regulars follow you across the room. You only hold his rough hand for a second before he drops yours. You should have known he weren't the hand holding type.

'So we lay in the dark,
We've got nothing to say

Just the beating of hearts,
Like two drums in the grey

I don't know what we're doing

I don't know what we've done

But the fire is coming

So I think we should run.'

"I'm sorry I fell asleep," you tell him your first morning together.
He shrugs, one of those shrugs that says so much you'll never know. It doesn't seem like he's slept much and he confirms this with his next sentence.
"Was listening to you breathe."
You guess that's why he lets you follow him out of town.
That first night weren't no one off. He don't sleep good. You always drop off first and you wonder what it is he thinks about when the room falls dark and quiet. Sometimes you open your eyes and you know he ain't had one wink of sleep, but you begin to prefer that to the shouting and yelling he does when he's not conscious. You hear names indistinctly, you hear fear and desperation in his voice - but no matter how freaked out he is when you wake him, he never tells you a thing.

'While I put on my shoes,

He will button his coat

And we will step outside

Checking that the coast is clear on both sides

'Cause we don't wanna be seen

Oh, this is suicide

But you can't see the ropes.'

You know he carries a gun. You know sometimes he sleeps with the butt curled up inside nail bitten fingers. You've seen the way he slinks in his seat when a cop car rolls by. You visit some real shit holes on your travels. But you also visit some real nice places. Once you ask him if you can stay longer at one of these quaint little towns- with the even sidewalks and pretty flower borders. Where everybody smiles and says hello. But the look he gives you cut the conversation dead.

You don't know what it is he's running from, but whatever it is, you're running from it too. And until he stops running from his ghosts, real or imaginary, the two of you will always be running. It's a choice you make every night to have his warm body beside you.

'And I won't tell my mother

It's better she don't know

And he won't tell his folks,

'Cause they're already ghosts

And we'll just keep each other,

As safe as we can

Until we reach the border

Until we make our plan.'

You worry about your Mama after a while. You can't help it, you do. But there's no point saying it out loud. He don't care about your troubles. He looks at you blankly when you express any kind of emotion but you're pretty sure he'd kill someone for you if you asked and that's good enough, ain't it? You keep telling yourself that one day he'll open up and tell you his story. It's been almost three years since he passed through your hometown and you still know nothing. Not where he's been, not where he's going and not what he's running from.

Will you stay with me my love for another day?

'Cause I don't want to be alone,

When I'm in this state

Will you stay with me my love?

'Til we're old and grey

'Cause I don't wanna be alone

When these bones decay.'

You know what your Mama has is hereditary. You get a sneaking feeling he does too. But for some reason he don't leave you and he don't tell you that your tiredness or shortness of breath is slowing him down. Maybe he even feels useful when you need something from the pharmacy or you need his help to get undressed and lay down on the motel bed. You wish he'd hold you and tell you everything will be alright. But you can't have everything now, can you?

The two of you keep moving. Town to town. City to city. State to state. You don't know what it is he's running from, but whatever it is, you're running from it too.