The Salton Sea

Contains sexual content and substance abuse.

She packed the last box and sat on the floor with nowhere to go. 

Dylan left the day before, staying at a friend's to give her space, but the loneliness stretched. His scent lingered. His PlayStation was still connected; his favorite DVDs - The Salton Sea, Sin City, and The Shining - laid scattered. These were pieces of him—each a shard of a life fractured.

Sleep eluded her. She lay staring at the ceiling, head throbbing. Two days without food or water left her body weak, yet tears came—and she welcomed them. Before dawn, she sensed the apartment's emptiness. She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and left her key on the counter. The door clicked shut, and she was gone, needing to flee before regret devoured her. 

The engine hummed, shattering the pre-dawn stillness of an El Cajon street. Music - burned CDs of Dashboard Confessional, My Chemical Romance, and Panic! at the Disco, filled those first moments of her escape. The 8 stretched ahead, an endless ribbon of asphalt, her old life shrinking in the rearview mirror.

Dylan called, his voice a calm, distant echo. "What about your stuff?"

“Sell it. Donate what you can’t.” She barely recognized her own voice. 

“You sure?” he asked, as if clinging to something already lost.

“Yeah,” she said, hanging up before she could say anything else.

It was all she could do not to scream.

Their life together receding like a closing door. Mountains rose in the distance, windmills spun in the dry heat.

She didn't understand the pull, but it felt like an irresistible force was drawing her closer. She arrived at the Salton Sea feeling like a puppet on unseen strings. It wasn’t her final destination of course. But Dylan had always said this was a place things went to die. Now their dreams she carried were in this graveyard of hope.  

The landscape contrasted sharply with coastal California—flat, cracked earth, the air thick with a metallic salt tang. The Salton Sea wasn’t beautiful; it was a stagnant, chemical-laden expanse. Dylan was fascinated by its desolation and chaotic essence, often romanticizing it. She never understood, but now, standing on its shore, she felt a kinship with its bleak beauty.

She opened a blank notebook, ready to write about Dylan and her emptiness, but words escaped her. She only managed to jot down the date as proof of her existence.

A truck passed, shattering the silence. A man in the dust eyed her, suggesting she didn't belong. Maybe he was right; maybe she was just another lost soul trying to disappear.

She continued east, driven by a restless energy, and found herself at The Slabs. There were no real directions, no welcome, just a sense that if you knew, you’d find your way. Dilapidated trailers and makeshift shelters dotted the landscape, testaments to a life lived on the fringes. 

She heard shouting, then the sickening thud of fists hitting flesh. Crouching behind a rusted trailer, she watched two men kick a third, their laughter cruel. A fourth man stood apart, arms crossed, gaze fixed. He saw her, and she felt a chill despite the heat.

When he left, she found a quiet corner and scribbled in her notebook: I don’t know where I’m going.

A shadow loomed. She looked up to see the man with the fixed gaze standing before her.

"What are you doing here?" 

"I don’t know. I needed to get away.” 

He nodded and gestured for her to follow. By a rusted barrel, he sat on a tattered blanket and asked without looking, "You got food?"

She handed him granola bars and cigarettes. He lit one, exhaling slowly.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Does it matter?" he asked. She stayed silent until he finally said, "They call me Theory."

"Elliot."

Theory nodded. 

He leaned on his elbows, took a drag from his cigarette, and watched the smoke swirl. "Ever been here before?" he asked, flicking ash. She shook her head.

"Most people don't come on purpose," he mused. "And if they do, it's temporary. But time shifts when you stop counting it."

A man, barefoot and gaunt, stumbled past them like a ghost. He didn’t acknowledge them, and Theory took no notice.

"You been here long?"

"Sure." He didn't seem the type to open up.

"Ok, ever been anywhere else?"

"Didn't work out."

"Why?" she pressed.

He took a long drag. "You ask a lot of questions." 

"You don't really answer any."

He smirked, as if at a private joke. "That's the trick."

The silence lingered in the heat, the air thick with burnt chemicals and a distant, sharp laugh fading away. Theory tapped his cigarette on a rusted can. "People disappear or get found. Either way, you get what you get."

She couldn’t tell if he was a threat, safe, or something in between.

"You running from something?" he asked, still looking away.

"Maybe."

"Yeah. Maybe."

A man with hollow eyes and jittery hands approached. He exchanged a few words with Theory, handed him a small bag, and took an item in return. Without a word, he vanished into the maze of trailers.

Theory didn’t explain. 

"Still staying?" 

"For now.”

Theory grinned, as if he already knew. "That's what they all say."

The first man returned, mumbling, his eyes glazed. "You got anything?"

Theory remained still. "Not for you."

He hesitated, muttered, and walked away.

"You should get out of the open if you’re staying," Theory said.

"Why?"

He didn’t answer, just stretched and started walking. She hesitated, then followed.

They navigated the maze, passing a woman with tangled hair stirred a pot by a fire. A distant dog's bark was silenced by a shout. 

Theory stopped at a half-buried, rusted RV, its windows shattered. Inside was a pile of blankets and a candle melted to wax. 

"You can sleep here.”

"Is this yours?"

"No. It's nobody's. That's how it works." 

Exhausted, she stepped inside and sat down. 

"Need anything?" 

She shook her head.

"Get some sleep. We’ll see if you’re still here in the morning." He disappeared.

Night fell like a slow collapse.

Elliot curled up in the van's rusted warmth, ignoring her hunger, the granola bars untouched. She picked up Dylan's book, hoping to reconnect with its once-cherished words, but the meaning eluded her after three readings of the same page. Frustrated, she set the book aside and watched a spiderweb sway in the broken window.

Her thoughts wandered to Dylan—his hands in her hair and his whispers when he thought she was asleep. Leaving had been easy, but now, alone, she realized how much of herself she’d left behind. Outside, a dog barked, the wind shifting.

Then she heard footsteps and the door creaked open, letting in a sliver of light.

Theory.

"You're still here.”

She said nothing.

He entered without asking, sat near her, and leaned against the frame. 

"Couldn’t sleep?" 

She shook her head. "You?" 

He lit a cigarette, blowing smoke rings. "Place gets loud at night. Too much happening."

Elliot listened to the distant music and voices.

"You get used to it." 

She hugged her knees. "Maybe I don’t want to." 

"Then why are you here?"

She opened her mouth, but the answer stuck.

"I don’t know," she confessed.

"Do you ever know why you're anywhere?"

The question hung in the air as the night enveloped them like a warm blanket.

Then Theory reached out, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her inner wrist. The contact was quiet, a whispered request for consent, and carried a sense of hesitance, testing the waters of a fragile connection.

Elliot didn’t pull away.

The distance between them closed inch by inch, as they both slowly acknowledged the reality unfolding around them until it was undeniable. His breath, warm and steady, brushed her cheek, his calloused fingers tracing patterns on her skin. The room faded, the walls dissolving into a soft blur, leaving only the urgency of his body pressed inside hers. It wasn't love nor mere escape; it was something nestled in the undefined space between—a way to feel alive, a way to drown out memories, a tangible connection in a world that often felt distant and unreachable.

For a little while, it worked.

Morning came slowly, bringing an oppressive heat.

Elliot awoke to Theory’s arm draped over her stomach, his breath warm on her neck. The blanket smelled like the dust of a thousand days settling into its fibers. Her muscles ached in a way that reminded her she still had a body, that she was still here. 

She slipped out from under him. The world felt abandoned as the sun rose. A few people shuffled by; a woman smoked on a truck hood. A man urinated by a trailer, and a dog curled in the shade, sniffing trash. 

Nothing rushed.

Elliot stood, stretching, feeling grimy and sticky. She craved a shower and turned to Theory, now awake, watching her.

"I'm going into town," she rasped. "I need a shower. Real food."

Theory slowly blinked, sat up, and reached for a cigarette. "Brave of you."

She arched an eyebrow. "To get clean?"

"To come back."

Elliot didn’t answer.

She grabbed her bag, paused, and asked, “You want to come?”

“Nah,” he replied. “Not today.”

She nodded like it made sense.

“Need anything?” 

“Surprise me.”

The gas station bathroom reeked of bleach and cheap soap. Elliot stood, scrubbing until her skin turned pink, washing her hair twice. It still didn't feel like enough. 

She bought sandwiches, a cold Diet Coke, water bottles, cigarettes for Theory, and two fresh oranges.

Driving back, she savored the clean clothes. For a moment, she considered driving on, but her stomach twisted at the thought.

Elliot found Theory in the same spot and tossed him the pack.

“Surprise.”

He caught the box effortlessly, tapping it against his palm. She sat beside him, peeling an orange, and placed the food between them.

"You're full of surprises."

This place, this life—just existed.

She handed him an orange slice.

"Surprised you didn't keep it for yourself.”

Elliot shrugged. "Still figuring things out."

The space felt safe. Theory moved slightly, his hand gently touching hers—a silent invitation to reconnect. The temporary intimacy anchored her, keeping her from drifting away.

She leaned in. His lips brushed hers and she closed her eyes, surrendering. The kiss blurred everything around them into insignificance. She felt the familiar heat of his body. It was a wordless connection, an unspoken desire breaking through her numbness. Soon, they were entwined, moving in harmony, as if they'd danced this dance many times before. 

When they finally separated, neither spoke. Elliot sat back, chest heaving, hands trembling as she tried to steady herself. Theory stood, buttoning his pants.

"I'll be back later," he said casually, as if it were routine.

Elliot nodded, afraid her voice might betray her. She slung her bag over her shoulder, grabbed the book, and flipped to a random page. Dylan's words felt foreign, blurring as noise filled her mind.

Instead, she wrote.

It felt like the only way to make sense of the chaos swirling in her mind. 

She wrote about Theory. His silence filled the space between them, and his touch left a strange, unplaceable ache after their kiss. She wrote about the way he fucked her.

She wrote about the desert, feeling lost, unsure how to find her way. Everything seemed unreal, decaying or fading, yet somehow, she felt she belonged to that decay.

Hours passed as she wrote. She paused only for water, an outsider observing the lazy rhythm of life around her.

She reflected on Dylan and abandoning her old life. Writing became her refuge, seeking answers or oblivion. His betrayal left a wound that wouldn't heal, but writing kept her from vanishing into nothingness.

As the sun set and the air cooled, she heard footsteps on the gravel—Theory was back. He sat beside her in silence, as if shedding a burden, and they existed together.

"You ever think we're just ghosts?" Theory finally asked.

Elliot exhaled. "I think we're all running from something. Maybe that's what makes us real."

“Maybe,” he stretched the word, “but what if we're running toward something?” The question lingered, unanswered.

Finally, she embraced the vulnerability. 

“What are you running toward?”

“No clue. Just hope something’s worth it.” 

She looked at him, really looked. “I think you’re worth it.” 

Theory's gaze was intense, making her stomach flutter. He took her hand, kissing the insides of her wrists. This time it wasn't a question - just a quiet connection that spoke for itself. A connection they needed.

Elliot closed her eyes, breathing shallowly. Her fingers brushed his arm, drawing him closer, his skin damp with sweat. She leaned into him, savoring his unhurried kisses down her neck. In one motion, he knelt before her, his tongue guiding her into ecstasy.

The desert's sounds enveloped them—crickets, wind rustling through dry brush - a world of their own. As evening wore on they shared a joint, letting the smoke trail into the sky. Elliot inhaled deeply.

“Are we less like ghosts when we’re inside each other?”

"Maybe. Life's strange," Theory mused. "We're all playing a game we don't get, but we keep playing. Why?" 

Elliot, eyes on the fire, took a drag. "Stopping's worse. We'd face what we’re avoiding. Moving lets us pretend we're progressing."

"You think anyone's really making progress?" 

"I doubt it matters." 

Theory chuckled, a bittersweet sound. "Probably not." 

"I don’t know why I’m here. I feel empty, like I'm running from something I can't stop."

"You don’t have to know right now." He moved closer. "Sometimes, running is all you can do, for a while."

His words didn't comfort, nor dismiss. They sat as stars appeared, tiny hopes in the vast black sky. It was quiet, not lonely.

"Tell me something real about you," she said.

He paused. "I like my coffee black."

"That's something.”

"What about you?"  

"I'm afraid the void will win," she confessed, then regretted it. "I didn't mean to say that. Just forget it."

Feeling vulnerable, she broke away from the discomfort. "I'm going to make something to eat. Want anything?"

Theory nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Sure." He didn't press or judge.

Cooking over the fire felt meditative, grounding.

When Theory kissed her again, there was no hesitation. She welcomed the connection. Elliot steadied herself against his chest, moving in sync with his thrusts. It felt as if they were the only two people in the universe, everything else paused just for them.

When the noise faded, they lay together, bodies close. She closed her eyes, the night's quiet hum a soft echo, and for the first time in a while, she felt almost peaceful.

The next morning, she woke before him, listening to his soft, steady breathing. She slipped out of bed, driven by an irresistible restlessness. She didn't want to leave, but it was all she knew.

At a lonely gas station on the town's edge, she felt as empty as her surroundings. Life buzzed around her, yet inside, she was still. She bought black coffee and sat outside, staring at the vast horizon. The distant traffic seemed worlds away. She tried reading a book she’d carried for days, but the words slipped by. Instead, she absorbed the wind and passing cars. It was peaceful but didn’t fill her void.

She felt the urge to keep moving, to go further. It was an itch she couldn't ignore. She headed back to Theory, already sure of herself.

When she found him, she moved with purpose, kissing him gently and drawing him closer. Kneeling on the cool floor, she guided his hands to her head, trusting him to lead. Their rhythm brought him release, their silence tender, as if they had found an answer. Yet, deep down, she knew it wasn't the solution they sought. 

She said nothing; he didn't expect her to stay. Not really. As she drove under the vast sky, the engine was the only sound. She welcomed the silence. She was alone, truly alone—but for the first time, it didn’t feel like an ending.