The Spinster or The Escape

The night sky was split by thunder bolts the night Ryan Murphy made his escape. He stood in the muddy ground, gulping fresh air, because he was no longer a convict, rather a former convict, a man on the run. With one last breath of clean air, not tainted by the numerous odors produced by so many men craved into one living space, and took off running, while the noises of dogs and alarms and men’s voices rose up like fire behind him. After a day of running, and spending a night in the woods, he came across a house, on what must be the outskirts of a town. The house was white and small, and nondescript. Near the backdoor, he heard a woman’s voice, talking most likely to a dog. He walked up to her, all smiles and charm “‘Scuse me ma’am, but I’m kind of lost and I need a phone…” he had no concrete plan, but was sure he could get creative when he needed to. She eyed him warily, and he smiled harder and tried to look harmless, using his natural good look, which nothing, not even prison, had taken from him. “well come on then" she said, her voice rough and somewhat harsh, with the same accent as all her neighbors for miles around. Country girl he thought, looking closely at her figure as she walked in front of him. Not the most beautiful of women, but she would do, he guessed, if need be. He hadn’t seen woman in years, he wasn’t about to get choosy. Trying to get a better grasp on the situation, he tried sound innocent, saying “Ah-um, I sure hope your husband won’t mind… “Not married” she says, again abrupt, and somewhat lonely. Good, he thinks, because she’ll be easy to convince. They come to a kitchen, small and old, but need and obviously frequently used. “Sit” she says, speaking in commands the way mothers and nannies and school teachers do. “You want something to eat?” she asks, back turned to him as she fusses with something at the sink. He says yes, the first good meal he’s had in ages, he knows. As she washes, he takes in her figure again. She’s older than she looks he thinks. But still somewhat pretty. A widow maybe? He asks her, and she says “No, not really. Never married...thought about being a nun, too, but I don’t think I really believe in God.” he nods, but her back is still turned. He isn’t bored though, the surroundings so new after the same monotonous grey walls. Hi eyes skitter around, like a kid in a candy shop, until he sees it. Sitting, glinting on a side table cluttered with newspapers, is a revolver. His heart stars to hammer, and then she turns, looks him dead in the eye, and says, “You’re that boy, right? On all the news channels? The criminal?” his breath catches and he lunges for the gun and points it at her before he fully realizes what he’s doing. “For God’s sake! Put that thing down!” “I thought you didn’t believe in God.” “Doesn’t mean I can’t invoke his name. Now put that down, and I’ll get dinner ready.” Dazed, he lowers the gun, but doesn’t put it down. She gets a plate, sets it in front of him and waits. Slowly, he grabs a bite, then two, until he’s eating like the plate might be taken away. “Slow” she says, “slow”. He slows, though not completely, and finishes. Then they sit there, awkwardly, her arms folded, his right hand still holding the gun. “What’re you gonna do?” he says. She smiles, a shy schoolgirl smile, and says “I should be asking that. I’m just lonely, ok? Just need someone to talk to.” “I’m lonely too” he sys, and then thinks it stupid. She smiles again, more knowing, and her hand slides over the table like a stream of water, and lands on his. He smiles, and takes it, because he’s never understood women, so he doesn’t try.