This Girl

This is the girl. She has long, unwashed black hair. It thins along the crown. She bends her eyes downward. She wears her mouth like a line. See how she pauses at the airport turnstile. She does look back. She sees her boyfriend’s car. He sees her squint in the lamplight. He drives a diesel car, to save energy. Smoke pours from the tailpipe. The smoke balloons in the cold. He has dropped her off at the curb. The snow covers the ground. Makes it dangerous. It is a low hour. It is 2AM. She is California-bound. In her right hand is a duffel bag. There is a name. It is a smear, an ink block written on an ID tag. The tag flaps against the bag. It hangs from a thin string.

She pushes at a sliding door. The door is made of glass. It does not give. She pushes at another door. And another. She pries this door with her palm. It glides open on invisible tracks. Her palm leaves a smudge. It will be removed in the morning. The lobby is emptied of sound. An escalator whirrs to itself. The leather couches are indented with the memories of the travelers who sat there and made their conversations before midnight.

Her hands tremble. She lives in Wisconsin. Far away from home. There will not be another flight to San Jose until tomorrow. Her father is sick.

This is the bed. Joshua lives here too. The heater is broken. She’s wearing her bra. Black. Nothing else. She is cold. Her head is tilted. Her hair falls. To her shoulder. The pillow is soft. Her neck is stiff. His pelvis. Scratches against hers. She trembles. His skin glows white. In the darkness. His glasses are speckled. With dirt. She wants to polish them with a cloth. His eyes are lasers. Burning through his eyelids. She is underneath. His palms are planted. He thrusts. Again. Again. Again. A drop of sweat drips down. From his jaw. Sits on her clavicle. Another drop. Another. His velocity increases. He is a piston. His eyes pop open. Against her ear are his lips. He whispers.

Was that okay?

She nods.

She gets up. She walks to the bathroom. Her knees. Sink to the tile. She leans over the tub. She gets out the vinegar. Gallon-sized jug. She rubs the sides of the tub. Hard. Back and forth. Like she did the day before. The day before yesterday too. The sponge tears in half. She rips off the plastic wrap. A new sponge. She scrubs some more. Her fingers slip back. And forth. Her fingers scrape the ceramic. They bleed. She does not feel it. Her fingers are peeling. Their skin is cracked. She washes them twenty times a day.

The phone rings. Joshua answers.

Yes, let me see if she is here.

Do you want to come to the phone? he asks her.

No, she says.

It’s your Mom. It’s an emergency.

He hands her the phone. She’s still wearing her bra.

Mom? she says.

He stands in the bathroom. He is still naked. Why doesn’t he leave?

I’ll drive you to the airport, he says.

Thank you, she says. You’re a good boyfriend.

He pulls her close. A hug. He strokes. Her hair. She turns her head. Away. Their bodies are cool. Tightening.

Her arms are crossed in resentment. This girl is not grateful. Her father sits with his arms crossed to keep himself warm. He is cold. He is sick. The doctors have given him a year. There will be no surgery. There will be a hard time for his breathing. His stick legs curl behind him on the musty cloth of the easy chair. He is curled into himself like a cat. His pants legs lift. His sharp, bony ankles. She has pulled up a plastic folding chair that hurts for her back. She curls into herself. Head down. He sits in front of her. She cannot see him in spite of their proximity. She imagines a stack of books. They are...