Sometimes we find ourselves going in circles.

The night is heavy with moisture. Not a mist, not a down pour, just wet, steady. My threadbare, patched jacket is little protection. if the night was any colder, I know I would die of hypothermia. Instead I am just wet and uncomfortable, here on some back road on the backside of the world.

It started on a road like this one. In a rain, like this one. I reach up and brush the lank, wet, gray-black hair from my eyes. My hair hadn't been gray then. With their leaves gone, their cold, dead, skeletal fingers reaching for the down coming moisture, the trees look as old and dead as I feel inside. As old and dead feeling as he must have felt.

I can still see him, standing by the road, in a rain like this one. Ragged looking. Wet and cold was how he looked. About my height, my size, but stooped over, like the weight of centuries was on his shoulder. I laugh, I imagine it's how I look right about now. He was older of course, at least then. I don't think he expected anyone to pick him up. I know I sure don't.

I remember his eyes. Gray, same as mine, but ancient, eyes that had seen it all and didn't want another look. Set like marbles in the ruts of his wrinkled face. A nobody, like me.

The wind picks up. I raise my collar to try to keep the wind off of my neck, didn't do any good. He had his collar up. I remember how he cradled the hot cup of coffee I poured out of the thermos for him, leaching the heat into his old creased hands. The momentary look of thanks before his guard came up.

I wonder if things could have been different, wonder if I wanted them to be. The wandering. The jobs lost, opportunities thrown away or drown in bottles. Lord I could use one now. I wonder if he had wanted a drink of something besides coffee? Probably.

"Spilled gas on yer self" was all he had said.

I hadn't answered. He hadn't looked in the back seat. In the back seat where the old gas can was splashing and gurgling with each jolt of the washboarded road. Guess his hearing was shot. Know mine’s been since the flu epidemic of '06.

The coffee was drugged of course. I'm afraid the coffee's caffeine couldn't overcome the barb's I had laced it with. He hadn't even noticed when he had dropped the half empty cup into his lap. I look up from my musing. I pass a side road, overgrown, would make a good place to hide a car.

Thirteen years. That road had been overgrown also. They hadn't found the car for nearly a month. By then identifying the remains had been nearly impossible, except for the jewelry, watch and charred remains of a wallet.

I wonder if I could have turned it around. The bad marriage, the debts, perhaps even jail for the money I had "borrowed" from the job. Nothing to do except kill myself, so I did. I remember the smell of gasoline as I soaked the engine compartment. The smell of the hundred proof I had sloshed over the old man. He hadn't even stirred as I had placed him in the drivers seat, was probably dead from the barb's already. The quarter tank of gasoline blew up when I was about a half mile away. Really lit up the night.

A full moon plays hide and seek with the rain clouds, but still the rain falls. I look down the road and see a pair of headlights. The left one is dim.

Surprise. The car stops. It's an older model, haven't seen one like it in years. Good condition though. The fella inside is young, but looks troubled.

"Get in. Would you like some coffee?" He smiles at me, but it doesn't reach his pale eyes. He pours some coffee from a thermos.

"Thanks, sure will take the chill off."

I cup my hands around the hot cup, grateful for the warmth. The car is filled with a sickly sweet smell.

"Spilled gas on yourself, didn't ya?" I ask him as I drink the over sweet coffee. He doesn't answer.

The warmth of the coffee drives out the chill, replacing it with a warm contented drowsiness. As the cup slips from my hand, I have a feeling I've seen him before...