True blue

We’re on 84 east. The gorge sits north, off to the left. The dogs are sleeping on the floorboards. You are driving, and the sky is true blue. We pull over and I take the wheel, and you are watching the water of the Columbia, the mountains and tunnels and tracks all around us. The road is bright and full of beauty. We pull off into the Cascade Locks, where I pay the dollar toll and we cross The Bridge of the Gods, watching the river and small islands, the shores of Oregon and Washington. A flash of light and we’re sitting in the coffee house in Stevenson, laughing and sipping hot coffee, the dogs outside running the alley, the long sweet day of summer. It’s the first time I’ve actually seen what your face might look like in human form, and it’s so beautiful it’s almost unreal. The sun reaches in the window and streaks the table top, our hands upon each other’s, the taste of life in the air. Your eyes are upon my face, and I tell you about New York City. Your laugh and your words, your nose peppered by the sun, your eyes deep with stories of home. You lean across the table—

“STANTON. COME DOWN FOR 15 MINUTES UNCLASSIFIED OUT-TIME.”

The lock was thrown. You weren’t there. I was in a concrete cell. I dressed awkwardly. I stood by the door and waited for the lock to be thrown. I saw A.J. and Pussei down there, and the guy from Booking who’d been in the bar fight, whose last name was Hookes. The lock disengaged and I walked out and down the steps for the first time, and the windows of the cells were full with faces.