|dahlia is a total (kayo) wrote in repose,|
@ 2017-05-05 15:15:00
|Entry tags:||*log, connie gunster, dahlia haight|
[UFO Tourism: Connie & Dahlia]
Who: Connie & Dahlia
What: Gal pals. Just bein' pals.
Where: Repose → Roswell, NM.
Warnings: Swears, but probs tame.
It felt like running away. It kinda was, wasn't it? Even Dahlia didn't really feel like she left town. Roswell? Just another small town barely longer than its Main Street that thrived off weirdos.
But New Mexico was blessedly warm. Summer-in-the-Midwest but without all of the humidity. Dahlia wanted to just bottle up all this sun and dry heat for a shitty day. Today, she swapped out all the riding leather for peak spring break frat bro looks: muscle tank and bared ink and leather sandals and hair tucked under a backward cap in all its tacky glory. (Look, Connie dared her to get it. Okay? Ironically.) She was leaning against a post, watching for her best friend to emerge from the crowd across the way in an empty lot, where some kinda tiny festival was set up. Cheap souvenirs and junk and music and street food. Dahlia took a second to step away and smoke and just soak up some sun unbothered, like a lizard. Cell reception showed up for a hot second, and there were messages on her phone.
Other than the weather and oxide-red mountains against the backdrop, the other difference between this place and Repose was this town just accepted its heritage with open arms. It was touristy and cheesy, and Connie seemed to revel in this shit. Dahlia weren't gonna admit how she was feeling, but it was obvious.
The day they left town? She was off. Moody like a migraine, where she went all monosyllabic and snapped gum aggressively and stared off in the distance a lot. But the first day was all riding. Roadtrip by motorcycle meant open roads, lotta sun, the wind blowing through her, and most importantly: little to no conversation. No pressure to be anybody else. Just herself, and the road, and the comfortable weight of the only person who put up with her wrapped 'round her back.
And after several days of that, and a little hiking, diners, mom-and-pop motels, and every weird roadside attraction the Southwest had to offer, Dahlia felt fucking zen. Maybe felt a little of whatever she looked for at the bottom of every bottle. That first night, and every night thereafter, she dropped exhausted and sun-exposed into motel beds and slept like a goddamn baby. Best sleep she had in fucking months. Too tired that even the shared quarters situation didn't phase her none. Maybe she shoulda had a shred of self-consciousness 'bout curling up against Connie and dozing off to Law & Order reruns on motel TV, but she didn't. It just felt okay. Normal. Like for once, she could handle anything.
For now, Dahlia sent messages and glanced at old ones and considered a second cigarette before familiar white bobbed out of the crowd, over the top of her aviators. Dahlia burst into her wolf grin. "Dude!" she waved her phone as Connie approached, pointing at a mural. "God, can we keep it?? I fuckin' want it for the gym." She was gonna have to settle for a picture, though, as she slung an arm around her best friend, reeling her in close and into the frame.
I feel at home. She knew Connie felt at home 'round weirdness. Dahlia? Maybe she felt at home 'round Connie.
Mushing her cheek against white hair, Dahlia murmured, "You talk to Pat at all yet?" Casually. 'Cause it had been several days on a bike, and shitty desert reception. She squinted and adjusted her arm for optimal selfie distance. "You know he worries 'bout you. He's gonna think we got abducted."