“I can’t shit with my shoes on.”

Andi had a way of admitting odd—usually grotesque—things at random. We had fallen silent with our coffee and glazed donuts between us.

What if I told you Andi was a lie? Some made up figment that I created to deal with my guilt. Well, I’d be lying about lying. Andi is real. Real as rain, real as a chocolate éclair, real as a park bench.

Josh lets her in through the back door and is reminded of a serpent by the way she slithers across the linoleum floor. The girl home from college leans against the frame of the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed and her head tilted, as she watches Josh pull a bag of fish sticks from the freezer. He calls out to the other room, telling his niece to come to the kitchen. The little girl voice stops reading aloud and a small child wanders into the kitchen, clutching a heavily watered-down version of Oliver Twist to her chest with her arms crossed over it. Josh tugs the book out of her grasp, placing it on the counter, and picks her up to dangle her in front of the open refrigerator, asking her what she wants with her fish sticks. The little girl gives the fridge a hard once-over with her beady brown eyes, a trait she and Josh share, and declares, “I think we’re out of applesauce.” Josh tells her to pick something else, then. The girl points to a container of yogurt with a chubby finger. Josh sets her down and grabs it. He tells her she can go back to reading. She snatches her book from the counter and shoots a suspicious look to the girl from college, who has been watching this exchange with amusement that she keeps evident in a small smile.

I smoke two cigarettes hurriedly on the way to meet my mother and grandparents for dinner. I fool myself into thinking I need them to get through dinner, even though I run a high risk of getting caught if I hug them for too long. I have to join them for dinner because it is one of my last days in town before I move to another city to begin college. Dealing with my grandparents—these are on my mother’s side—has become sort of a strange sport in its own way. My mother and I must avoid as much opportunity for them to complain as possible. We also must avoid sparking any conversation that might lead to an overly prodding curiosity from either of them, for this is a possibility to be judged and judged harshly. The problem lies less with my grandfather, more with my grandmother. This is the woman that waited until I was eighteen to mention that oh by the way, my mother’s second might have molested me but I was probably too young to remember it. Yes, grandma, I’d say that’s a perfect Thanksgiving conversation topic, thank you for consulting me before you opened your mouth.

I pulled the truck up to the curb, parked it, and gave a long sigh. I grabbed the cap hanging of the back of my seat and pulled it over my pulled-back hair, climbed out of the truck, and slammed the door. I thought, I could really go for a cigarette. My hands were sweaty as I pulled out a small metal box from the back of the truck, various cleaning and plumbing supplies hanging on the walls. I closed the back door, glancing briefly at the “Mr. Kleen Plumbers” logo that I’d seen every day for the past five years. I climbed quietly to the fourth floor of the apartment complex, rang the bell, and prepared myself as I waited.

I was at my mother's house, lying on a broken futon, and through the heavy southern humidity and sunlight coming through the screened-in porch, I realized I needed winter like I needed a good fuck.

First I thought of all the sweaters in my closet that needed wearing, the ones I disappeared into. Then I thought of how shitty it was to be smoking in 100-degree weather, even when I cracked my windows and ran the AC. What a terrible existence.

Then I thought about how it had been months and the boy I was talking to was never going to go for it, even if I made the first move. Virgins. I didn’t need that shit.

Ever since I started working at the café again, the heat hadn’t gone below 100. Two weeks passed. Every time I climbed into the car, while I waited for the engine to warm up and thus the  air to get cold, I studied the giant spider web crack that was constantly tormenting me, forcing me to wear sunglasses and long sleeves at all times in case the window shattered as I went over a speed bump too fast. My brother said windshield glass is built so that won’t happen. My grandfather, who looks for signs of repainted cars along the inside of the trunk, says that glass explodes when it gets hot enough.

“I think if it was that hot in your car, you’d be dead,” the virgin told me.

Still I think about what I would do, what could happen. Would I swerve, diving into oncoming traffic like a rabid boar, or sail across the median like a goose on a mission? What would I hit? Who would I hit? Maybe I wouldn’t swerve at all. Maybe I’d just give the nice guy in front of me a nice bumper rape. Not like any of this would matter. My skin would be split from my bones, falling off me in clumps like wet leaves. Blood everywhere, but at least I’ve got leather seats. That’s why the long sleeves. That’s why the sunglasses. On top of all this I already had a well-established fear that my car was bound to explode at any moment, since it had a nasty habit emitting white smoke for no particular reason (alongside overheating on me twice, almost leaving me to die in the middle of bumfuck).

I think it all stemmed from the time I’d driven by a car on fire once. It was on the other side of a two lane road, but that didn’t matter when I rolled by it and felt the heat through my door. Not just a slight warm breath in temperature change; it was a sweat-inducing blast that had an immediate reaction of my foot flat on the gas petal. I look at a flame emanating from a candle and I know it’s hot; I drive by an incinerated car and wonder if I didn’t just miss a secret entrance to Hell.

Perhaps for this occasion she dressed up
like sonme fifty-dollar whore,
knee-high boots and a school girl outfit--
the whole getup.
Or maybe this week she would be the "Executive Slut"
or an easily persuadable candy striper. 
He liked making it interesting. 

On certain days,
he took great precision standing in front fo the wall
covered in leather straps.
Other times he was in a hurry, 
and just used his hands.

However often it happened
she still bent over the desk
awkward as a calf,
caught between sunshine and rain.