Crossing the Line

I took her over the county line. This parish is dry and you have to drive some to get a damn drink. She's not much older than my truck but we both need a break from the coal dusted air. In the mostly empty White Pony cold beers slide our way. She's wiry and tough, no one bothers to card her. Together in a booth corner she tells me her story, it's a short brutal one, my hands feel dirty as I nod saying nothing, then order whisky chasers. On the way back to her trailer she asks me if I want something from her. I ain’t got the words. Maybe another drink some other stone cold night, I hear myself say.