Jeffrey Graessley
Black and whites roll through the parking lot, half a dozen La Puente Sheriffs. I keep my windows up. Cell phone flashes, her text reads: On Temple. An Asian couple in their late 20s giggles to their Import–the female opens his door before driving off.
One of the same eight radio songs is humming through the broken speaker on my passenger side when her SUV pulls in; loops around my car and parks. Her window glides down.
“Get in here.”
I crank the handle on my door, window slow climbs up, get out, and flick the lock. Quick inventory pat on my pockets, everything in order. I pull her door open and climb in.
Her boyfriend’s work uniform is hanging in the back window. She smells like him. Wide eyes holding onto mine. I smile at her before she pulls my beard and kisses me–a little more than a peck. Then pulls away.
“ was talking to my mom. She made me feel better.”
I nod. “Moms are good like that.”
“Yea, moving is just a hard thing to do, especially in with another per—”
The blare of a patrol car cuts the transient silence to pieces, like a ripped bag of cans spilling to the asphalt. Tires belt out the parking lot onto Temple. Two more follow.
“Someone’s fucked,” I say, knowing who.
She giggles, nervous. “I know this has to stop,” she manages.
Her eyes won’t meet mine, and that’s okay. I allow myself a few seconds–mental inventory of her skin. I won’t be back.
“I know.”
“’s just terrible timing. I really like you. The way you-”
I lift a hand up, she frowns, something real and lively twists on her face. Fuck it, I thought.
“I’m the invalid that continues to touch the flame.”
“ does that mean?”
“ that this needs to stop.”
Silence resumes.
I refuse her goodbye hug, why bother? I unlock my door, and the scent of stale tobacco assaults my nose. I light up, pull the car around and wait for a moment’s worth of separation to needle my way back onto Temple Ave.
© 2013 Rind Literary Magazine. All Works © Respective Authors.
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Vox Inaudica 