Cynthia

It was a short drive, but through it all Spring came, then Summer, then Autumn, then Winter. The car had six windows, in each window a girl peered inward; one was named ‘love’, the other ‘fear’, the other ‘loathing’, then next, ‘sorrow’, next came doubt, last was Cynthia, she who slept with old men, who comforted them when death kept them up all night. It seemed to him that the journey took a strange turn on the morning of the last day of each Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. The car took a turn either for the better, or the worse, then the girls that looked into the windows would smile kindly, or scream, grimace in disgust, weep, or disbelieve the revealed, Cynthia; she who looked through the rear window, blessed the road as it veered this way and that so that the road eventually let go of the car, the journey and the old man, who nodded his acceptance. That very night he slept peacefully with Cynthia.