I guess he’d always had kind of a thing for me, but if he did he was much to closed to ever deal with it directly. His quiet visits before driving dropping everyone’s radar for a few months were his way of inviting me to join him. It was an interesting prospect, something I’d entertained the prospect of attempting for a few years. I enjoyed his stories of road living as much as everyone else. Every time he’d make his final stop, I thought of reasons not to join him. My job, my friends, the fact that He’d never really been all there to begin with; but when it comes right down to it I think what made me always option out was the looks he’d give me. I didn’t understand them then; something about them was vaguely unsettling and out of character. They were the only times he’d seemed to be content just to lounge in one place for hours. I was afraid of what living with him for months in such a small space might be like.