“…And if you
really want to know on December tenth I first had sex with him.” Rachel Holiday
continues to drive, looking out the front windshield. There is a heavy autumnal
gale slapping against the side of the car. Her foot accelerates the vessel to
80 mph. She seems irritable. I place my hand up against the window, watching as
drops accumulate in little glucose
“Did you wear a
condom?” I inquire. Looking at her by way of her reflection in the tear smeared
windshield. I can see her eyes seemingly blink as the wipers swipe back and
forth, as if waving goodbye to us in a very weird way. Rachel switches lane
without slapping down her signaler, nods her chin as if to indicate, yes, she
was safe.
“And it hurt like
hell.” Rachel Holiday says, without me inquiring. She is still driving, driving
very fast. Two eternal years ago, when Rachel’s father would pick us up mother
would just request that I wear my seat belt in the car. Rachel is driving
fast, her friend still kissing her
bumper, driving fast, on the interstate telling me all about Lee, telling me
how in love with Lee she still is.
All I can do is
look out the window and listen.
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