The Hand on her Head

They followed the suns for three days to make a speedy delivery from Irma to the buyer’s compound in the lower dunes. It was towards the end of day two when Jona signaled for them to pull off at the upcoming town. He was in search of ammunition and expected this town’s general store to have his caliber on stock. Jona never made deliveries unprepared/ unarmed. As for Yara she was just looking forward to stopping and stretching her legs. They had been on the move ever since Irma, and that was days ago, when Jona’s brain made the decision for him that he no longer needed sleep. They rode through most of both day and night as Jona tried reaching for the switch in the back of his head that let him sleep again.

Yara stayed with the bikes while Jona made his way into the GS. She relished the moment and let a tired smile spread across her face as she pressed her entire weight through the soles of her boots into solid ground. It felt good to stand there, to not be moving or riding on something gasoline powered. Gradually, the feeling in the tops of her feet returned, a sensation she was certain she lost the ability to feel illo’s ago. She fished out a half- brick that had been kicked around in her pant’s pocket for too long. Stray bits of pocket lint clung to the jagged face where the brick had been snapped in half. She brought the dirty side to her lips but before she could blow off the undesired bits something across the street stole her attention. Or, some-things.

A handful of underperforming degenerates had assembled themselves into something of a public annoyance. Scattered along the scale of drunkenness, the men seized the moment only they saw as an ideal opportunity to cat-call anything they assumed had a vagina. A bottle of warm whiskey shared among the degenerates and the misogynistic structures inherent in our larger social system gifted them with blinding confidence.

“You fella’s see what I see?” one of them asked loudly enough to let Yara know he was talking about her, even from across the street. The others took slightly longer to catch up-- the warm whiskey really slowed them down-- but once it clicked they were right there beside their buddy.

They continued to hoot and holler from their station just on the other side of the town’s main and only road. With the suns beginning to settle behind the distant mountains Yara felt a rush of air as the surrounding desert cooled off for the evening. Most shops and businesses other than the bar had closed for the night. In fact, the shopkeeper at the general store was reaching for the switch to turn off the store’s OPEN sign when in walks Jona, asking about buying some bullets. The shopkeeper turned her back on the man momentarily as she scanned the shelves directly behind her for the requested round. She turned back around to set the boxes on the counter and ring up the strangely silent man. Before she had time to punch the sale into the register the man had left-- as did the three boxes of bullets. She mentally steeled herself before reaching for the sawed-off under the counter. No one stole from-- her eyes took a final look at the till and what she saw caused her to put the gun back under the counter. A short stack of exact change neatly waited for her from atop the till’s display. It covered the cost of the bullets precisely.

Back on the street, Yara had taken all she could before hatching the “bright” idea to holler something back at the assorted degenerates. She had heard more than enough from the likes of those goons. That last comment about how her thighs--

“Mother--” she sneared, radiating the sort of energy associated with rolling up your sleeves before getting in a scrap. Yara took two angry steps forward, opened her mouth to finally fire back, but a physical connection stopped her. Calm, collected, and completely on queue, Jona appeared back on the street. He held all three boxes in one arm, and the other was extended to set his hand on her head. The sudden sensation of stability stopped her mid-stride.

“That is a bad idea,” she heard him from over her shoulder.

“Ugh, classic man!” Yara started going off. “Never letting a woman deal with her own--”

“Yara, you’re picking fights in public. Again.” He told her, still seemingly indifferent to the situation at large. “Let it go.”

The high-roading from Jona was apparently Yara’s breaking point. That was beyond enough for her. She took a centering breath and walked towards her own bike, but before mounting up, she tossed out just one of the lude comments those guys hollered at her. Suddenly, letting it go vanished over the horizon. Without saying a word, without even looking at her, Jona hands Yara the boxes he was holding before crossing the road. He carried with him, instead, an energy that came from rolling your sleeves up just before scrapping.