Sightlines

Sightlines

by Stan Kolodziej

He pulled the car over, came to a slow stop and closed his eyes, not daring to look at anything. The sense of movement, of being pulled forward, was still deep inside him. Something out there had changed, had shifted, and had reached for him, and for a moment part of him had cried out to it, stronger than his fear. That something had stared at and through him. It had nearly found him, had come out, hesitated, then moved to consume him like a force of energy pushing through a film of white mercury. It was beautiful. It always was, the way it shimmered and advanced slowly came toward him while he sat there hoping it would not break apart, it was so delicate. Just a little further. It was trying to find him but he couldn't let it, not just yet. There would be time for that soon enough. It didn't speak, it didn't look and didn't see. Instead it had hovered and hesitated, it had floated and seethed, and then imploded into a million tiny points.

He finally exhaled and felt alone again. After some time he opened his eyes and made sure his world was still intact. He checked the time and saw all the minutes, all the seconds were accounted for. His scuffed leather briefcase stil rested on the passenger seat, as did his small instant camera, scribbled notes on yellow paper, unlined, and there was a corner of his black canvas suitcase jammed at a twisted angle between the passenger seat and the dash, the zipper hanging where part of it had ripped away from the rest of the bag. He studied the peeled brown leather of his right shoe, partly hidden by a corner of the pant leg of his dark gray trousers, creases running diagonally at all angles, crossing and recrossing, but not running parallel to one another, a real blessing. Even the veins in his hands would not obey the symmetry, and he took some measure of delight in that small act of defiance.

Like every time, it was all so familiar, all detached. He lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl into itself and flatten along the tattered roof of the car, entangled between the shreds of fabric and the pressed metal. The smoke was calming and so reassuring because it did not believe the symmetry. He felt inside the canvas bag. What he felt for was still there, it was always there and he knew that but he also knew that in a short time he would reach in once again and check, and again, just to make sure that he had really checked, and it would always be there again. But it didn't matter, because he could never be sure enough.

Check the bag and check the time again. Three hours and change and it would be all over. He was calm enough again to take a chance and look directly ahead. There was nothing out of place beyond the moving cars. Only trees and wind, but he was acutely aware of the movement around him. For a moment he watched the leaves being pushed apart and then pulled upward, caught by a sudden gust. Slowly, he edged the car out into the traffic again. He was forty-two, very aware that odd things could find a willing companion in age. But the oddest things were not in his head. And the headaches--without the aid of sunglasses and strong aspirin, even the weakest sunlight could peel away his sanity, layer by layer.

As he sat there, something was out there enough to compel him to keep his eyes focused directly on the road ahead. Conditioned fear told him to avoid the smooth edges and parallel lines of the trees that rose up, distant gray lines on either side of the highway, stabbing the horizon. Not concentrate, look beyond it, not at it, was the secret. The few lights visible in the town's twilight had transmuted, milky and suffuse. But there was something enough in the clean balance and cut of those lines and the sudden explosive movement of the leaves that gave him no peace, the landscape shifted to settle into a dangerous new pattern. Check the time again. Three hours, less change. Time only to move and never be too careful.