The woman is pretty. There was a time in my life she would have been the kind of woman I could see myself settling down with. That was a lifetime ago, however. Those dreams are dead. Besides, she might be pretty, but she’s also a damn loon. That’s evident because there’s a damn pig trotting along at my footsteps. A pig that’s wearing a pink fur coat and snorting at me like it’s pissed I’m not carrying it too.
It doesn’t take long to get to my truck—at least in time, but it feels like fucking forever. I open the door and all but throw her in there. To my surprise, she doesn’t argue or complain. Instead, she looks up at me, her clear blue eyes not flinching even though I know she can see the twisted scar that runs down the side of my face. She doesn’t even act like she sees it. She pushes her copper curls that are now plastered on her head from the rain, behind her ear and whispers, “Thank you.”
Thank you?
I grunt, because fuck if I know how to respond to that. I move back and start to close the door when the damn pig goes up on its hind legs, putting the top two on the floorboard of the vehicle as if to pull its fat little body inside. I just stare at it, because I really have no words for what I’m seeing. It’s a miniature pig in a fur coat, like I said. However, I just noticed there’s a matching pink bow on its curly tail and I swear I think it’s wagging the damn tail.
Can pigs even do that?
“It’s okay, Bogo. I got you. Mommy’s sorry I got you in this mess,” she croons her voice soft and sweet and I ignore the way it seems to instantly wrap around my dick. I’m not going there. That part of my life is over. Besides, she may not have flinched when she saw the scar on my face, but that doesn’t mean shit. I watch her pick up and cradle the pig, holding it to her chest, cushioning it between her full breasts and for a moment I’m jealous of the damn thing.
I shake off the thoughts in my head, counting it down to me being celibate since my accident, but since that’s not going to change, my damn body needs to accept it.
“I’m Ophelia,” the girl chimes, once I get in the vehicle and start driving down the mountain. “You can call me Ophie.”
I ignore her, concentrating on the road.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
And again, I say nothing.
“This here is Bogo,” she prattles on like I’m actually taking part in the conversation. “He’s my little companion. I’d be lost without him.”
I don’t know if she can see me roll my eyes, but I’m definitely doing that. Then her voice drops down, as if she’s confiding a top-secret fact that the fate of the world hinges on.
“He thinks he’s a poodle.”
I can’t believe she just said that. I glance over at her, just to see how crazy she truly is. That’s when I notice she’s covering the little pig’s ears, just so he won’t hear her.
Jesus, the woman is certifiable.
I hum under my breath wondering if I’m doing the chick any favors taking her to her vehicle. I should take her straight to the neighboring town where they can lock her in the mental ward of the hospital there. She definitely needs medication of some sort.
“That’s why I bought him the coat. If you touch it? It kind of feels like poodle fur. Do you want to try?” she asks.
“No,” I respond, my voice a rumble of frustration as I go against my better judgment and respond.
“Okie doke then. It’s really soft though,” she says, sounding sad that I wouldn’t touch the damn coat.
Thankfully she doesn’t talk the rest of the trip down the mountain. I’m not sure I could have handled it if she had. I pull in beside a damn Volkswagen van that had to have been made back in the sixties. It’s white and pale yellow, and the side windows are covered in white curtains that have yellow daisies on them. There’s a luggage rack on top and there’s a damn homemade sign that’s hanging from the handles of the double doors on the side. It’s made of wood, painted white with little yellow daisies all around the letters that spell out, “Make Love, Not War.”
Fuck, maybe I’ve entered the Twilight Zone and Ophelia is from the sixties herself.
I clear my throat, not wanting to ask, but something inside of me—a forgotten piece left over from when I used to take part in society, of when I was idealistic and thought my job was to take care of others—nags at me.