She liked him cause he had all his teeth in his head; he did the knocking out of teeth and never the other way around. He was rough as a burlap sack on the outside. The insides were all 90 degree angles with a couple of soft folds that rested like crow’s feet in deep corners, buried like treasures; there was no map.
She had the feeling she was off-roading with him. Perpetual vacation. The back roads. There was something to his quiet simplicity. The way he didn’t talk much and just stared at the horizon like he was chewing on a thought. He was the kind of man who had an understanding with everything he came in contact with; and maybe that was because you didn’t need a map or instructions to read him. He just was, as a river just was; engraved into the foundation of America, but fluid and ever-changing.
She would wrap her arms around him at night and run her fingers down the valley of his back. He was something untamed, and she loved him for it. And there she would go, stoking little crow’s feet of softness to his edges like dough.