3
Chigurh is limp hair casting its shadow over one hollow, dark eye. His scent is clean socks. His sound is the scrape of thrashing boot heels, dying on the floor of a sheriff’s office. Plainview glances over at him during their long drives through unending American vistas and none of this registers on him. He sees only useful, or unusable. He smells only oil. He hears only the thrashing of a derrick’s heavy hinge.
Chigurh’s gloves squeak as he wrings the steering wheel’s thin throat. Plainview’s hands pass over his chin, eliciting the rasp of stubble and, in their mutual silence, each man maintains his solitude.
