On the road

Tom and Daisy have returned, more like ashes from distant vulcanoes than a fresh, soothing breath of fall. They say they've been to Argentina but her shimmering tan tells a different story - he's vainly had his mustache trimmed to look like Errol Flynn's (all similarities end there), his charcoal hair a pomade paradise.

Henry slides his fingertips suggestively across his throat as a signal for us to escape. Before I can tell Elisa he grabs my arms and pulls me away. "Leave her" he whispers, "there's no time". It's meant to be a joke but to me she a very real casualty of war, stranded with the two of them and the habitual disdain they share between them.

We drive northeast toward the mountains, away from the smell of rosemary and salt and the ocean. I have so many things to ask him but this time too I remain silent, afraid of finding out what that void in his heart was once made up of.