Sharon brushed her hands against her jeans, a reflex for the irritation from the dirt on her hands. She found the spot behind the boulder where she had stored the metal trash can and began to take off each piece of her clothing one-by-one, dropping them into the can until she was a naked woman in the dark desert.
The matches—four of them—fell into the can, and fire licked up from the bottom. The heat felt great in her current state of dress, and Sharon stood by the fire as if she were roasting marshmallows. For a moment, she wished for s’mores.
She poked her clothes with the end of the shovel, and when she was certain they were ashes, she put the lid on the can and looked around. Still no one here, thank goodness; she didn’t want to run in front of anyone naked.
Once back in the truck, she slid into her fresh sundress and flip flops, took a sip of water, and cranked up her country music. She sped out of the sand trap with a grin a mile wide on her face—the radio was playing her favorite song.
Sharon thought of a face and her eyes lit up. Arthur would be back in town tonight, she had checked his schedule three times. He would be at the bar, drinking away the note his girlfriend had left him.
She would meet him there in her sundress and pink lipstick and with her hair slightly rough, the way he said he liked it. It had been too long since they had sat at the corner table and spoken in hushed whispers, the kind that only resulted from sleep deprivation and alcohol.
When Sharon pulled up to the bar, she saw Arthur’s truck outside, as she expected. She pulled out the lipstick and put it on, admiring the color in the rear view mirror. It suits me better, anyway, she thought.
“Hey, Arthur!” she said with an easygoing smile as she walked up to the bar and ordered her drink. “What’s wrong, you don’t look so good.”
“Jenny left me,” he said with a slight slur. “You should see this note she left me. Real piece of work, that one.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur—what did it say?” she said it with a hand on his shoulder—a comforting friend in a time of need. She had no real interest in the note, of course.
After all, she had written it.