So now she knew and it was done, and as the curves in the road rocked her in and out of the same bad dream she thought of him: of how rough he’d been with the woman at the wedding, of how surprised he’d been to see her, and then less so, and then resigned.
It was dark now, the party over. He drove without speaking to her.
In the beam of headlights the road snaked back and forth in front of them, then disappeared. The truck ate up the road. She turned to look behind her and it was gone; the silhouettes of trees were barely visible by the moonlight breaking through the gauze of clouds. Sometimes on both sides of them were long fields of corn and low fields of tobacco, and sometimes the headlights lit up patches of trees, the dead trunks and branches of oaks and pines, and the gnarly bushes of wildflowers that grew in their roots, and patches of clover which, if left alone, grew into tall and thorny flowers with wild purple faces.
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