by Sandra Seamans
Blurs of neon freak through my brain whipping up psycho delectable dreams that would panic the sexy psychedelic cowboy whose headlights funnel us through the dark tunnels of the night.
My cowboy believes the Harley between his legs gives him control over the wind and time and life expectancies. His precious curves of metal and motor oil stroke his ego, fanning his belief that he is king of his own little world. But I wonder, did the Harley know what she was doing when she allowed him to stop and give this fading shadow of a woman a lift?
My arms cradle his waist as the wind brushes my thoughts free of the pale satin ribbons that bound my mind tightly to my chastity-belted beliefs. Freedom. So long denied in a loveless marriage to a pig of a bible thumping man. The crooning cowboy in front of me is a pale shadow of the one I left behind, lying in a pool of his own blood. I wonder. Should I do some other lonely lady a favor? Will the freedom loving Harley allow one last act of unbridled passion on her saddled back?
I lift my arms toward the sky and roar into the night, “Freedommmmm.” Then my knife slides with the delectable ease of the flying Harley across his throat and the night crashes inward on our racing bodies.