His Next Girl, and: Let Go

His Next Girl

I like to imagine that before you met him your family vacationedat Lake Huron. You stayed on the Canadian side. You can’tremember the name of the town, though you remember eatinga kind of cookie with chocolate on one side called a digestive biscuit.

We’re from western Pennsylvania—you and I—and all the lakes hereare manmade, muddy, with beaches of squishy grass that stainyour bathing suit. I bet you’d never seen anything like Lake Huron.Maybe you mistook it for the ocean, or thought it went on forever.

Your parents rented a cabin. You slept on the fold-out couch withyour sister. Is your sister older? Yes. She is older and makes fun of youwhen you get your period for the first time on that trip. But also shows youhow to use a tampon, tells you to relax as you try to force it.

You are terrified it will fall out and a dog will find it, carry it along the beach.The beach is empty so when it does, you just kick sand over itand dive in. You are strong from being on the swim team. No,you’re not on the swim team. He’d avoid girls on teams. Maybe

you swim alone after school at the Y while your sister takes Zumba.The important thing is you are a strong swimmer. Because I need youto get out there into the stinging cold of Lake Huron. Your sister too,the both of you breathless, laughing at your recklessness. So far out

they can’t hear you. You get all the way out there and it is fine. You fightthe waves back, return ravenous, eat two hot dogs and fistfuls of chips in your still-wet suit. You tell your mom you need a pad and squirm in her hug.I imagine this because I need you to have a memory with a vibrant color,something to float in, since I left you nothing—not even a cry, not even a warning.

Let Go

I lay back and watched light scan the ceilingas my boyfriend shaved me.He said he preferred things a little neaterand I had been told relationshipswere all about compromise. My skinscaled like a burn, too tender to fuckthough seeing me bare turned him on.Studying myself in the mirror, I thoughtabout children and what people do to themand how I am a messy, unruly thing. The itchwas unbearable. After he left me,I let myself go as they say, became shaggyand silky. When I stretch, my armpitsunfurl their soft tongues and peekingout from behind a curtain makes mefeel like a shameless flirt again.