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ONE DAY OFF SEASON

FICTION BY ROBERT CRAIG

Driving down. The dog has been in meltdown mode since they started seeing pitch pine and cranberry bogs along the highway. Then the Bourne Bridge. Salty sea air blowing in through the truck vents. The dog can smell where they're headed: whining and barking and shaking drool everywhere. They decide to hit the beach first to let the dog burn some steam. His head out the truck window as they pull into the beach parking lot. Barking begging excited. The place is empty. Leaving leashes in the truck. Provincetown, Massachusetts.

 

 

“At no other time does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honey-sweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.”

Rainer Maria Rilke