After four years of writing about the men, thanks to the On the Road prompt at qaf_drabbles, I was finally inspired to write about one of the women.







The knock comes as Leda’s packing. It’s Graciela, dark eyes shining with resolve. Smiling, Leda pulls her into the motel room, the housekeeping cart abandoned in the hall.

Graciela's trembling; it’s cruel to make her stand, but Leda likes kneeling before these women, the small town girls, the tired waitresses, worshiping in a way they’ve never known.

At the first warm kiss between her legs, Graciela comes, murmuring a foreign prayer.

Later, she’ll lie beneath her husband and think about the highway, and how she'd clutched at Leda’s hair, and how it slipped and slid like water through her fingers.