Rodeo Whiteout

John pulled his arms in through his sweater sleeves and hugged himself for warmth, tucking his chin deep in his chest.

Rotating his head slightly he observed two young Hispanic men stepping off the bus in heavy work jackets, wrenching on gloves, tilting cowboy hats against the frigid wind. He shivered and constricted – that inadequate feeling, bolstered by the cold, advanced once again.

The driver was busy prospecting the underbelly compartments of the idling Greyhound as John turned his focus to a lonely gas station where his ex-wife retreated moments after their awkward reunion. He could still be delayed in Atlanta if it weren’t for his brilliant idea to take a bus.

The plastic-like crunch of his luggage being dispatched into a snowdrift, interrupted his elusive fantasy. John floundered, returning his right arm to its rightful sleeve, and picked up the small red suitcase, feeling more out of place than a pair of Mexican cowboys in a blizzard.


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