The Next Step
Cord invited me on a fishing trip. We left the disaster site and went to a fire house where we had a nice hot shower, put back on our not clean clothes, then went to a department store.
‘Pick up what you need for a week…” he said.
I had nothing but the clothes I stood up in. I selected three pairs of jeans, underwear, a few tee shirts and a jeans jacket, as well as a tooth brush, tooth paste, soap, skin lotion, a brush and comb and feminine products.
As heroes we virtually got the things for nothing.
We had a light bite to eat, then he took me to his camper.
Cord lived in his camper. I didn’t ask him why. I just said it was brilliant. He had a look on his face, as if he hadn’t started living in a camper by choice.
I didn’t ask.
If he was married and his wife threw him out and he took refuge in a moving house, it didn’t matter.
Angel and Cord mattered.
I boarded his camper as if I lived in such a contraption all me life. He he showed me around. There were two pull down beds. Not having much stuff made it easy.
Being with Cord was easy.
No pressure, no mind games, no need to push an agenda, just being himself, me being myself, together.
We didn’t do Me 101. Beyond now things, “You want more coffee?” or “Traffic is crazy,” we were mostly silent.
We didn’t talk about the disaster, or where we had been, what we had done. We didn’t carry our pasts with us. I was born the day of the disaster, and it seemed, so was he.
We were together and we just breathed.