stuck in the ditch out there
in Bumfuckville. As for people, the few true connections
I’ve been allowed are all right here in Sonora. Now I’m
expected to sacrifice those,
because of the woman who
sacrificed me? No damn way.”
Okay. Okay. But just so you know, “bitter” doesn’t suit you. I’ll shut up now because I don’t want to upset you any more than you already are.
Except one last thought: Maybe your anger is misdirected?
Maybe. But does it matter?
“Thanks. I’ll consider that.”
I open the passenger door,
try not to slam it shut behind me. Before I can stomp off
into the night, and up the walk, Gabe pops out of the GTO.
Wait, okay? He comes over, pulls me against him, hugs me
tightly. I don’t want to leave while you’re still pissed. Timing is critical. I’m sorry ours proved to be out of sync, my pretty Ariel.
Or should I call you Casey?
I’ll Wrestle with That
For a while. Maybe a long
while. “No. Not Casey.
Not yet. It’s sort of sinking
in that I’m not Ariel Pearson.
Facts are facts, whether
or not they make any sense
at the moment. The weird
thing is, I can more easily accept the idea that Dad is Jason Baxter than the theory that I’m Casey.”
He takes a deep breath. Okay, I’m going to try this again, and please listen. You’re reeling.
I get it. I would be, too. But for one short minute think about how it would feel to go to pick up your child after work. Only she’s gone, and you have no idea how to find her.
Maybe your mom made mistakes.
But she didn’t deserve that. She loves you. I believe that. Why don’t you give her a chance? Hey. Look at me.
Beneath the Cool Glare
Of the streetlight I look up into those crazy eyes, realize it just might be the last time I do.
I understand Gabe’s not mine to kiss, but I’m steamrolled
by lust and would give pretty much anything to be
with him right now.
I’m morally bankrupt.
I rest my cheek upon the rippling sinews of his chest, where his heart drums in primitive song, and when he folds me in tighter, tears well.
It occurs to me suddenly that it’s not sex I’m after, though that would be nice, and accomplish what I need—the solace of another’s touch.
I Cry into His Shirt
For a solid five minutes,
wishing all the hollow spaces
would fill with the compassion
he offers. But now I remember
that only a few steps farther,
Monica is waiting, and she’s exactly what I need. I push him away. “Go on. I’m not mad at you anymore.”
Sure. Soak my shirt. Use me, then discard me. It’s okay.
The echo of Dad’s recent outburst is an unfortunate coincidence.
It makes me cringe, though I know Gabe’s only kidding. Dad wasn’t.
The profound sense of loss I felt earlier is shallower now, and
I’m grateful for that. “Don’t stay up too late. Early to bed, early to rise. I’ll see you at seven thirty.
Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
Mine or not, I reach up and kiss him. On the lips. But no tongue.
Okay, truth be told, I’m going to miss tongue swapping with Gabe.
Asi Es La Vida
Such is life.
Monica answers the door as soon as I knock.
She’s been waiting for me, expected me sooner.
I neglected to let her know about my road-rage experience.
The first thing she says is, Oh Dios mio. ?Qué pasó en la cara?
“What happened to my face was my steering wheel.”
I avoid mentioning Dad.
“Can I come in? I need a mirror.”
You need more than that.
I’ll get you some ice.
She steps back, ushers me into the warmth
of her home, and not just temperature-wise.
The Torres family
might be celebrating Monica’s birthday
tonight, but the house shouts Christmas.
I thought Zelda and Gabe’s attempt was pretty great.
But take their green-and-red swag, add
gold and silver,
purple and blue;
plus a very real,
ceiling-high
Noble fir
dripping ornaments
and tinsel;
throw in candles,
scenting every room with gingerbread,
apples, and cinnamon.
The effort is obviously well rehearsed.
“Tu casa es hermosa.”
Her house is beautiful.
“Y tambien eres tu.”
And so is she.
“Feliz cumplea?os, novia.”
Gracias. Her thank-you is rather cool. Now let me get that ice. Are you hungry? We already ate, but there’s plenty left.
Am I Hungry?
I suppose I should be.
I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast. “I’ll nibble on something, I guess.”
I follow her into the kitchen, where her parents and sister are playing Conquian, a Mexican version of rummy.
Her mom looks up from
her cards. ?Ay! Tu cara.
?Estás bien? ?Que pasó?
While Monica puts ice in a Baggie, I tell
everyone what happened to my car, omitting
the circumstances
immediately preceding.
I’ll confide the ugly stuff to Monica later.
Here. Monica hands me the makeshift ice pack.
I’ll get you some posole.
The bowl of spicy pork-and-hominy stew satisfies at least one of the hollow spaces.
I hope Monica can fill the others.