disappear, blown away by a giant
hot wind of rage. “No, I don’t see her, and I have no idea where she is.
For all I know, she’s rotting in jail or hell, and I couldn’t care less
because the bitch never gave one
good goddamn about me.” Out of
air and steam, I pause and he says,
Hey, take it easy. How do you know?
My temples pulse noticeably.
“How do I know what, exactly?”
How do you know she never cared?
When was the last time you talked to her?
“I don’t know. Let me see. Guess
I must have been two. That’s when
she walked out of my life. Fifteen
years, no calls, no letters, no visits.
Hmm. Wonder why I might assume
I’m not a bullet point on her priority list. I mean, how would you feel if one of your parents up and deserted you?”
I realize my mistake just as he says, Desertion might be preferable to death.
At least it’s reversible. But I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s change the subject.
Anger cools, dissipates into a reddish haze, and I’m not sure if what’s left is directed toward Gabe or my mother.
Most likely the latter, because now that we’re talking about fast cars again, a small blush of desire paints my cheeks.
I Have a Hard Time
Believing he can
make me feel this
way at any time,
let alone after stoking such an overwhelming inferno of negative emotions. He must
be a warlock, hungry for a bite of my soul.
“I don’t suppose you have a cauldron and broom somewhere?”
That was off the wall.
Are you accusing me of witchcraft or what?
“Not exactly. It’s just you have this strange effect on me, and I was wondering if you cast spells in your spare time.”
If I do, it’s my secret.
But I’m curious about this strange effect.
Care to elaborate?
“Better not. Anyway, there’s the house.”
Gabe Steers the GTO
Into the driveway, pulls close
to the walk, stops the car.
When he turns in his seat
to look at me, the orange
rings in his eyes almost glow,
and I think maybe he actually
is a creature born of magic.
“Thanks for the ride. And for
the adventure.” I should exit
the automobile, go on inside,
but suddenly I don’t want him
to leave. Can’t stand the idea
of spending the evening alone.
As a way to delay the inevitable, I ask, “Would you like to come in for a little while? To talk, that is.”
Don’t want him to get the wrong
idea, not that he’s ever offered anything more than conversation.
I’d like to, but what about your dad? He’s probably expecting me back any minute now.
“He can’t know how long it
took for the ambulance, or
getting Niagara home. Besides,
he and Zelda are probably . . . tied up.”
Both of them? He grins at my puzzled look. That was a little bondage humor and, yes, I realize it’s not a pretty picture, so try to unsee it.
But if you think we can get away with it, I’d like to keep you company for a while.
He follows me to the door, so close behind I feel his breath, warm
through my hair to the skin of my neck, sparking delicious little shivers.
What’s going on? Is this me?
Dad turned down the heat
before we left, and the air inside is almost as cold as outside.
I dial up the thermostat, kick off my shoes, ask Gabe to do the same.
“My dad insists. Says it’s the only way to keep the floor clean enough not to vacuum. Just so you know, I vacuum anyway.” I gesture toward the living room. “Go sit and try to stay warm. Want something to drink?”
He shrugs. Sure. Whatever you’re having is fine, except I don’t drink soda. It’s poison.
Rules Out
Jack Daniel’s and Coke, I guess, not that I should be drinking with Gabe.
So why is that exactly what I want to do? I go check out Dad’s alcohol stash. He’s got a big bottle of some generic rum, maybe two-thirds full.
I think I can get away with swiping a little. Hot drinks, that’s what we’ll have. I microwave two mugs of water, add single shots (okay, big single shots) of cheap liquor, taste. Yech!
Add sugar. Taste. Much better, if still not great. Dash of cinnamon, dab
of butter. Hot buttered rums, and
I’m sticking to that. I carry them into the other room, where Gabe has
planted himself on the sofa. Luckily he chose the not-sagging end.
I offer a mug. “You can only have one, since you have to drive eventually.
You’re not into prohibition, are you?”
I don’t imbibe very often, but we’ve got something to celebrate today, don’t we? Plus, it’s still cold in here.
I’m Thinking
His reference to a celebration was about Hillary, though we still have no clue what’s up with her.
“I wish I knew how she’s doing.
You probably have a better idea about that than I do, though.”
Not really. He sips his drink.
Mmm. Not bad. You do this often?
“Do what? Make drinks?”
Not just make them, but invite guys in to share them with you when you’re sure your dad’s away.