I appraise him through the high window, squinting my eyes in the sharp glare of the setting sun. His tone seemed genuine and friendly enough— I’d had more than my fair share of experience with men who were less so. I craned my neck and peered down the road, mulling over the stretch of asphault and flatlands for nothing but miles. My skin is already sunburned, the shoulders ache from carrying my backpack the entire day, the worn sack filled with my belongings, which was admittedly not much.
After weighing my options, I turn my attention back to the trucker, mildly impressed with his patience, and swipe a damp, dark stand of hair from my face where it’s fallen out of my banana, wrapped around my head to protect my scalp from the sun. I’m a 5’10” man, with a deep tan and thick, wavy dark hair, small sections of it woven into thin braids, pulled back with my banana. My lips are cracked from the heat and dryness, and I’ve discarded all of my layers except for a thin white tank top, which does little to hide my swelling chest, my jean shorts, riding over my hairy thighs, and my boots.
“Reno,” I say at last, raising my voice above the idle engine. I’m actually shooting for Sparks, but he doesn’t need to know that; there close enough, anyway.
“That on your route, handsome?” I ask, cupping a hand over my eye in an attempt to see him better. I figure the worst that could happen is he tries to rape or kill me. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I certainly know how to handle that situation. Finally catching his eyes, though, I don’t think that’ll be the case.
