The drive away from the smouldering building is so very long, perhaps the longest of Roscoe’s life, one by one the people he is ferrying depart until he is left on his own, back with the open road. With the hum of the engine, he wonders back to his time at the Alusia Foundation, how it was nice to have somewhere consistent to sleep; a sign for the Southwestern Commune lingers in the distance, Roscoe flicks his indicator on. Coming up on the exit he hesitates for just that little bit too long, and the road to his old home passes him by, further away each second. But as they say in Dukes ‘there is always one winner and one loser’, and the hitchhiker that Roscoe picks up a handful of miles later was certainly the winner: ‘Hello, my name’s Ash, Ash Flint. Thank you so much for stopping, you wouldn’t believe how many people just keep driving.’
The question of ‘where are you headed?’ was simply met with ‘away from here.’ And so the two set-off, away from the setting sun.
The two travel together for longer than either anticipated, Ash didn’t really have anywhere to go, and Roscoe enjoyed the company. One night they stop at a diner, like they had done many times before, they order the usual, chef’s special and a coffee. Taking a sip, Ash almost spits the drink back out, ‘Wow, that’s bad… try some.’ Roscoe looks at his questioningly, but does as he says: he’s right, the coffee is abysmal. Ash traces his thumb around the rim of the cup, almost nervous, he finally says ‘I bet it’s the beans.’ He struggles to maintain eye contact, ‘the farmers around here just aren’t used to growing them, soils not right.’ There are a few more silent moments, ‘I hear there’s good land east of here… I’ve always wanted to be a farmer.’ And as the words leave his mouth, it dawns on the both of them, Ash finally knows where he is going, and Roscoe knows it means he will be alone again. The two men finish dinner and get back on the road, the engine feeling so much more quiet in the silence.
Roscoe wasn’t typically one to dance, but this time it was important, so he stayed up practicing. He’d hate to trip and embarrass himself in front of Ash, not that Ash would mind, he’d probably double over in laughter, joining him on the floor. Roscoe contemplates messing up the moves on purpose just to see that wonderful smile he always has, but shakes off the thought and continues practicing.
The wedding was not a large affair, but it had all the spirit and vigour of the grandest of Cherkersk feasts, and it’s easy to feed so many people when the Grooms own a farm. The wedding table was awash with friendly and familiar faces, some old, some new; though, as always, sending out an invitation does not guarantee a reply, the empty chairs do little to sour the mood. Roscoe and Ash danced into the night, and if they made mistakes, neither could tell, for they were lost in each other’s eyes.
‘There’s a new place that’s opened up, not far away. Come on let me treat you.’ Even after all these years, Roscoe still can’t seem to say no to Ash’s pleading puppy-dog eyes.
Walking into the ‘Not Unusual Café’ an older looking familiar face greets the couple; without hesitation, Roscoe orders a mocha and ‘whatever you recommend’, there is a look in the barista’s eye that one could guess to be a smile, not that her face shows it.
The drinks arrive with two foam swans swirled on top, Ash gawks at the beverage, not sure whether to drink it or simply admire. Roscoe finds the coffee doesn’t taste the same as it used to, but he’s unsure whether it’s him, or the drink that has changed.
The two aged men sit side by side near a fireplace, warm in each other’s embrace. One of them asks, ‘Do you ever wish you could be young again?’, the other looks into his partner’s eyes and thinks of what his life was like decades ago, ‘No. Not for one moment. I’m exactly where I want to be.’ The fire crackles in the gentle silence.