i meet him over drinks, a small bar in kansas, though all the bars run shoulder to shoulder on the high plains, the vast spaces reserved for winter wheat, leaving too little room inside public places to maneuver the walkways without collision, sometimes inappropriate, sometimes regrettable.
‘you remember erin?
…
‘ is it okay if she joins us?
…
‘i never understood why you never got along.’
when she arrives, she forgets whether she knows me or not.
the greetings exchanged uncertainly, we take our seats. i nudge her knee under the table, only for reassurance, while he orders a pitcher of beer.
his pager beeps almost as soon as he has poured our drinks.
fuck. fuck. fuck.
‘you have to go?’
‘yeah. i’m sorry. but you two stay.’
‘no, i’ll come with you.’
‘why? to wait around in the office? might as well finish the beer.’
and with his absence, somehow even less room.
‘sorry, charlie.’
* * *
‘don’t,’ she says, as i push her up against the door. ‘you’re not coming back, so just don’t.’
it doesn’t matter, the words, as if the screams and arm waving would stop the roller coaster. a feeling i remember at the fairgrounds, the first turn shocking my system so profoundly that i looked at my feet for a pedal that would bring the whole thing to a grinding halt. but as an adult you learn that once your ticket’s punched, the car runs through til the end.
we’re riding this out, despite our protestations. at some point, before the burns have settled into our elbows and knees, i think of him, and wonder if the kindness he’s shown me is a cry for exit or mere naivete. surely, he knows, i think, on the weekends. but monday he’s Candide, ignorant how all three of us love each other, his friend, his wife.
* * *
the next time, i bite her so hard that the shower drops taste like salt, and it wakes her enough that the scratches turn to punches, the lines of mascara on my chest foreboding purple and black, the colors of bruise and regret. i don’t know if the crying is from guilt or longing, and the doubt is what ends it all.
the room is so quiet for the rest of the night that the first hint of dawn rings loud enough to wake me. i marvel at my stealth, tiptoeing around the room, fully aware that though her back is turned, her eyes are wide open. i know that when i emerge from the hotel bathroom, she’ll be fully dressed and packed.
frenzy, less a word than inevitable. my co-respondent.
but i don’t expect she’ll be gone.
* * *
we pack our sleds back up the hill, my dad off in the field, the military’s version of respite for army brats. for two weeks, we don’t have to come in before 6, tiptoe around the house or otherwise dwell in silence. we breathe. easy. any humiliation we suffer will be at our own hands, the one opportunity for learning the self-destructive habits that will serve us well in adulthood.
tanya sits behind me and we fly, steering to hit the moguls, leaning to gain speed and finally reaching the ramp. only in memory does the suspension in midair last more than a moment, product of neurons misfiring, slowed from overuse; like the corrosion of sparkplugs.
we soar in that memory, the air colder than i remember, but not painful; we brace for impact, one that will draw blood. we're smiling, like children.
we soar.
we brace for impact.
we survive the landing.
this part is true.