She Didn't Mean To Do It

Whatever Works

Whatever Works “I never was much good at blow jobs,” she says, driving. “Couldn’t get the right amount of pressure. Or maybe it was him. He just didn’t like them. He said so: ‘maybe it’s me,’ he said.After awhile I just stopped worrying about it, and here we are.” I’m sitting in the back to keep an eye on her baby. I nod, thinking what I know, what I don’t know. Old music.Turn off that old radio music.The baby’s crying. More night inside the car than out. The baby’s crying despite she pulled over at the rest stop to feed it just ten, twenty miles back. I keep on pushing its rubber nipple at its mouth; it takes it a moment then goes on crying. Finally, entering the bridge, she reaches her arm back over the seat, finds the baby’s mouth with her finger. It knows her skin by taste. Mouths that finger, sucks it, chews it, falls asleep. “Whatever works,” she says, and keeps on driving fast and crooked around that way.  ...