The Connection

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The chapel had been funny. The Elvis impersonator was a Chinese guy. When they said the whole ceremony could be done in less than five minutes they weren’t kidding. Even down to the karate routine at the end. Outside there was a queue. In Vegas the impersonality of vacationers lends to crazy impulses, and there is always some scheme set up to fleece the good-willed. And hordes of willing victims. Still, in there, at that moment, they were both laughing. They were in on the joke of it all. That’s the reason they came. That, and the connection they’d made that was so intense you should have been able to see it from the Moon.

In the convertible outside they sat down into the seats, put on the stereo loud, and squealed the tyres blasting down the strip to the lights at the end. There was crazy talk over the noise of the wind and the music. A sense of dangerous excitement and a big motherfucking country right out there in front of the steering wheel. Cheap motels, the desert, and the Mountains of the Sierra, all moments away. They took turns to drive, both jamming their right foot hard into the floor. Gunning the thing. Laughing. Holding hands. Stopping to refuel. Kissing. Two people with some weird soul-bond, heading out under the milky way with the roof down. Maybe all the way to Alaska, Canada? Fuck, it might not end there. There were Northern Lights to sit and stare at, hold each other. Plan a graffiti crime-spree on the walls of a hick town. And wondrous, spirt-touching, intense love making to send them soaring.

 

 

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