And where exactly is it that we're heading? (Urgent Nitpicks Needed)

A/N: This is for a literary competition that closes at the end of the month, eastern Australian time so let's say I need to submit it by Sunday. I have been long listed for this prize for the past two years and I really want to push this year for the shortlist or better.

What do I need?
- Nitpicks and general criticism.
- I need someone to say what didn't make complete sense to them, what jarred them from the action, would could read a little more fluently.
- I need someone also to say that commas do not go there and that's a run-on sentence and that's not the right word.

Also, incase you are experience deja vu, an early version of this story was published a couple of months back.

Any help would be much appreciated.

And where exactly is it that we're heading?

There was a brittleness in the way Katie sat, holding the wheel with both hands and her arms straight. Paul had driven the entire trip, and she had said she would help with the driving, so she was.
“Are you certain this is the way?” she said.
“I’m certain.”
“Alright,” she said. “But can’t you just check?”
“I’m certain, trust me. And do you know how much data roaming costs are?”

Paul’s book lay face down on his lap. He lightly drummed the hard cover with his index finger; he turned it over and looked at the words, hearing them one at a time in his head though his concentration slipped. Even if he could read, it would probably annoy her, he thought. The book closed in his hands with a thud and he straightened his back in the car seat. He let his eyes travel from the book to the clock in the dash, which showed 1:21, and then to her eyes, which flicked down at the speedometer. She held a corner of her lower lip between her teeth. Everything she did was automatic, breathing, blinking, braking, pulling the wheel half a turn one way, letting it center again. The white line at the road’s shoulder passed beneath him, sliding ahead like a fuse.

“I’ve been so tired this whole trip,” she said. Her mouth stretched open. “I just wish I could have stayed up a little later.”
“It kind of died down after you left.”
“It doesn’t matter, we’ve come all this way. Least I could do was stay up for Glen and Tui. Oh,” she said taking one hand from the wheel and thumbing the vertical lines from her forehead, “I didn’t get a proper good bye.”
He shrugged. “They’ll come over soon enough, I’m sure.”
It was like this when they both had a hangover. The sensation of something growing inside, unfurling and pressing on the rope of intestines, lifts slowly as the day goes on. Had they been back at home in the apartment, she would fall into inertia. With only her face uncovered, she would peer out from beneath a blanket at the laptop screen, running old episodes of Seinfeld. In those times, he rushed to the fridge for chilled coconut water, and he fetched damp facecloths to place across her forehead. It seemed to him, he loved her more, when they were hung-over.

“I can drive, whenever you are ready to switch,” he said.
“It’s fine. I just need to take it slow. I don’t remember it being this windy when we came down.” She had the look he knew, her brow knitted, a knot at the kink of her jaw.
“We came down the other way,” he said, “remember? Dad said to avoid going this way. Apparently it’s faster though.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, though she opened her mouth. Then she said, “I just don’t know why we are in such a rush.”
“I really want to see Lisa, Darling.”
“Okay,” she said.

The gorge, a wound hacked into the land, was nothing like the clean austere incisions they were used to driving. The road was crude, hideous. They descended, winding along the narrow shelf in the grated cliff face. From the depths of the gorge, sprung coiled ferns, undoing themselves, clutching at the car. When the road curled outward over the gully, an anemic river came into view.

“You know,” she said, “that food was really bad.”
“It’s a Maori thing,” he said. The word Maori came out slowly. Its first syllable rose gently as his mouth shaped like a landed trout. Then came the harsh r, falling of his tongue like a stone.
“What?” she said.
He was suddenly self-conscious. He felt the colour rising in his cheeks. “You know, it’s a Maori traditional thing.” This time, the r came on softly. The mao, a sneer.
“No offense, but it tasted like dirt and salt. And the smell. God, it was like eating unwashed potatoes soaked in diesel.” The saddle of freckles across her cheeks contracted as she crinkled her nose.
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his hands. It hadn’t tasted of dirt to him. It tasted like the end of season break up at his father’s rugby club. It tasted like twenty-first birthdays in the tired wool shed up Seymour’s farm.
“If people are paying hundreds of dollars to come over for a wedding, you would expect them to put on a better spread.”
“I guess,” he paused. “Most people that were there probably live in Whanganui anyway.”
“Still,” she said.
He patted his chest, beating from it a quiet burp. “God, I’m paying for it today. I might take a night away from the booze – you know, get a good night’s rest,” he said.
She rolled her eyes quite deliberately.
“It’s such a waste of a day being hung over. I never used to feel this crap after a session.”
“Darling,” she said, her voice descending in a way it might if she were patronising a child. “We will just see how you feel later, you might be tired.” She turned away from the road with a small smile, and then turned back. “At least you had a good night.”
“You really didn’t miss much. The guitar came out and that was about it.”
“Oh, I can imagine. It’s just awkward when you don’t know anyone. It feels like I was the only person at the wedding who was out of place.”
“You know Tui and Kate.”
“Kate’s pregnant,” she said. “She left before me.”
“Well, I didn’t know anyone.”
“It’s different though,” she said, gently pressing the brake to take a hairpin bend. “You were drunk,” she cleared her throat, “and you fitted in.” She accelerated as they crossed the single-lane bridge at the gut of the gorge, passing over the river. He liked the way his hands felt when he rubbed them together. The tips numbed, the nails lifted and dirty, and the pillows between the joints hardened. He replayed the laying of the hangi. Pairs of brown hands building a tower of crate pellets to set alight, pairs of brown hands turning the glowing stones with shovels. The laying of the damp sacks of potatoes, kumara and legs of wild pork with the sharp black hair. The salt and tin smell dripping wild pork. He brought his fingertips to his nose, he smelled them. They smelled of nothing.

“I had never been to Whanganui,” he said, at last. “That was the first time.”
“I know. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He nodded. She was wrong, but he knew what she meant in a way.
She said, “I just meant you’re more, I don’t know, like th-“
“-what was that?” he said.
Something snatched his attention. Upon the grass, near the stones at the river’s edge something stood. An animal. A cow. It was white. Glimpsed, through a passing aperture in the limbs of trees and prongs of ponga, it appeared for a moment like a huhu grub nestled in an empty knot of wood. Its head rose.

“I think,” he said, turning back to look. “I think I just saw a cow.”
“A cow?” she said. “Out here?”
He shrugged. “I think.”
“What is a cow doing in the middle of the bush?”
“Do you want to pull over and go back for a look?” he said.
She laughed. “I’ve seen a cow before.” Then she looked at him, the hard lines of her face softened. “Oh, look at you. You’re so cute.”
“Why can’t we stop?
“I thought we were in a rush, Darling. We can’t stop to look at cow.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Do you think it’s lost?” he said.

They crept from the gorge, the engine grating. The cliff face dropped away and where it had been, a fence line rose from the hem of long grass, which leaned away from the car as they passed. The sky stretched out in a single grey, meeting the horizon. To one side, the green native bush plumed, to the other, neat combs of grass crept, and beneath them the black road slid, taking the gorge with it.

The flat straight road helped to settle his stomach; he blinked away the foaming nausea in his gut. Along the strait, a Ute with a wood-pallet roofed cage, swung out and roared past. Wet-eyed dogs stood and watched them from behind the chain-linked diamonds.

“Jesus,” she said.
“What?”
“What in God’s name is that?” She watched the cage as the Ute diminished slowly into the distance.
“Pig dogs,” he said.
Her face was slack. “Can you take over?”

She eased the car onto the gravel shoulder of the road. He walked around to the driver’s seat; she climbed over the centre console, pulled her shoes off and tucked her feet beneath her, then they continued. He took it easy around bends, letting her sleep against the window.

***

As they drew close to Paul’s sister, Lisa’s home, he pulled the rental into a park beside the beach. The moon was half lidded, though out in the darkness he could see the white tide. Whilst he waited for her to smear her cheeks and nose with make up, he watched it perpetually sweep in, turning the shells and grains of sand then it draw away. As it retreated, the shoreline broke into an ever-widening grin.

They crossed the road and walked to the front door. Pulling Lisa into a hug, all hands and shoulder blades, Katie said, “I’m sorry we got here so late, we underestimated the power of hangover a little this morning.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Lisa said. “How was the wedding?”

Cam and Paul shook hands, and Lisa poured two glasses of red wine and pointed out the beer fridge for Paul. Then she said, “Barbecue,” to Cam and handed him, a plate of meat.
“Go help,” Katie said, jerking her head toward the deck.
“Okay.”

“You must hate cooking at home,” he said, setting a spare beer down for his brother-in-law.
“I used to, just ask Lisa. When your Dad would come stay with us, Lisa used to make me put on a banquet. I hardly ever cooked at home,” he said. “But I don’t mind so much these days.” He put his beer on the hip of the barbecue.
“I kind of wanted to be a chef when I was younger.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I used to have this job, when I was at school. I was a kitchen hand.”
“You made the right choice, trust me.”
He shrugged. He imagined himself handling an oil dripping eye-fillet. The pop of the grill as he dropped it on.
“Doe’s Katie mind if I cook her veggie patties on the grill?”
“No, she will be fine. Just make sure she doesn’t see them touch any meat.”
Cam laughed.

After dinner, Lisa looked at the wall clock and said, “Well, I don’t know about you two, but we’ve got work in the morning.”
“Okay,” Paul said, rising from the table. “We won’t keep you up.”
“I’ve made the bed up in the spare room,” Lisa said.

They lowered themselves upon the blow up mattress as though they were climbing from the safety of land into a sliding dinghy. As she was dozing off, he leaned over and kissed her.

“Why didn’t you tell me your sister had such an amazing house?” she asked, not turning to face him.
“It’s alright, I guess.”
“I never knew” she said, yawning and talking at the same time in a way her words all joined together. “It doesn’t feel like a holiday yet, all we have done is move from one place to another.”
“I know.”
“I can’t wait to get to the beach and just relax.”
“Yeah,” he said.
He thought about the cow. A living, breathing cow out there in the bush.
“It’s weird being back here. It feels like this country has changed, you know?”
She didn’t answer. She was asleep.

They spent the last of their holiday at the beach, reading in the sun.

***

The apartment had been well kept; he opened the fridge to a full tray of eggs and a bottle of fresh milk. Upon her pillow, Katie’s sister Claire had left a note.

Hope you two had a wonderful trip thanks for letting me stay x

Weeks passed, his tan faded beneath his shirt and tie. They had dinner with her parents. Just the four of them gathered around a too small table at the centre of a bustling restaurant. The kind of trendy place that didn’t take bookings and the staff could have each walked off a catwalk somewhere in the world. Do they serve steak, at least? Tim, her dad, had asked when she had suggested the place. Yeah, organic and grain fed, she had joked.

“So how was your trip?” Tim asked, and then he sucked a draught of beer.

“It was good, except it didn’t really feel like a holiday at first,” Katie said, twirling her red wine by the stalk of the glass. “I mean the wedding was in the middle of nowhere. We got lost on the way down.”

Paul dipped his head, his eyes travelled about the table before him as though the white cloth were a map, the basket of flaky bread, the bowl of olives, the salt, the pepper, all towns.
“Some parts of New Zealand are really feral. I mean the wedding was at this old school or something,” she said. She tore a piece of bread, dipped it into the oil and ate it.

Tim let out a short laugh that sounded as though he was forcefully clearing his throat. “You’ve lived in the city too long.”

“No, honestly. You don’t understand what it was like,” she looked to Paul then to her mother, “Like there was this town where people were riding horses on the main stretch. Literally on the road like the stone ages.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad. Imagine that, dear,” he said to his wife. The waiter appeared.
“Medium,” he said. Tim raised his hand. “And rare?” Paul nodded and the waiter lowered the plates before the two men.
He eyed the meat before him: the criss-crossed black lines sunk into the flesh, the rose stain seeping in the scoop of mash potato.
He realised her hand was on his forearm. He looked up, met her eyes, all of their eyes.
“Are you okay?”

***

He had waved away his colleagues when they invited him for a beer. Taking the train home, he pulled his hands back into the sleeves of his coat before taking his grip on the handrail.
By the time she got home, she found him in bed reading.
She sat down and drew the hair away from his eyes with her fingers.
“Oh, look at your nails,” she said, pulling his hand into her lap. He shuffled on the pillow, to hold his book with the other hand.
“I’ve always bitten them,” he said with a defensive barb in his voice.
“I’ve never noticed.”
“Well,” he said. “I have.” He pulled his hand back, then after a moment he said, “You know, I was thinking I might start trying to meditate a little. Maybe we could do it in the mornings, before work?”
“Meditating,” she said, “Seriously?”
“Why not?”
“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”
“Weird?”
“Oh look at you, Darling. Don’t get upset.”
“I’m not.” He tried to straighten his frown out but realised he couldn’t.
“I will do it with you if you really want me to.”

The following week, after breakfast they turned the morning show off and sat, listening to each other breathing. When the timer issued a double beep on his phone, she laughed, just a small laugh as though she had been holding it in for ten minutes.
“It’s so strange, isn’t it?” she said. “I don’t know what’s supposed to happen.”
“It’s to clear your head. To make you think more clearly, I mean.”
“Did you read that online?”
“No,” he said. “A lot of high-level executives do it. You would be surprised.”
She sniffed.
“What?”
“You’re just funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, imagine the guys at the wedding. What would they say if they saw you now?” Her grin was getting to him. She always smiled.
“Who?”
“The ones who joked about your socks. You were different, you know. Even your voice changed.”
“Oh, shut up,” he said.
“Imagine them all sitting round with their legs folded.”She threw her mouth open and laughter tore out. Genuine laughter, but it hurt him all the same.
“I didn’t change,” he said. “I was just drunk.”

“Oh, It’s okay, darling,” she said. She pulled him gently, holding her hands against his cheeks. Resting his head in her lap, she turned strands of his hair about her fingers.

“We all do it.”

She pointed the remote and the breakfast show started, mid-sentence. “…money on things that just don’t work, if you want to look younger...” He looked at the TV, but he did not focus on it. He thought only of the cow, grazing beside the river. He thought, how did it get there? He thought, does it know where it is?