I drove my mother’s car; A manual transmission, 1989 deep-purple Volvo station-wagon. I’ve been driving for ten miles. The kind of miles that take forever because you’re on a two-lane county road with frequent and unnecessary stop-lights for the majority of them.
Trisha sat passenger. She knew this wouldn’t be a short drive. Through trail and error, we had discovered that only one liquor store in town sold booze to underage adults like us, and at that one liquor store, only one employee never asked for an ID. That particular employee worked on Thursday nights between 7-10 pm.
Trish had the tendency to buy something different every Thursday. Last Thursday, she got cinnamon whiskey and skittles. This Thursday, she planned on buying flavored vodka (cherry, she had hoped) and cigarettes. I would go for my usual purchase of adequately priced Kentucky whiskey. I rarely strayed.
It was summer, and the wagon’s only cool air came from a natural breeze that didn’t exist at the moment. Thankfully, I sweat very little. Trisha wore a short jean shirt that was frayed at the end. Too short. If her thighs were smaller, I think I’d be able to see her underwear. I try not to look, and then I wonder if she noticed me not looking. The miles became increasingly distracting..
She said, grinning wildly,
“Do you like Kathleen? Because she said something about you..and I’m just curious?”
She was sitting sideways, completely facing me. She looked more like a child now, more of how I remembered her looking when I was a child. She seemed giddy. Uppity. Like a sugar addict for gossip, and pixie-sticks.
We reach a stop light. Red. We are close to silent for its entirety. The music is low and barely audible. So quiet, that I can’t even tell what song I’m hearing. I begin to regret not turning up the radio earlier. She continues to stare at me and smile. I look ahead. No eye contact. No thoughts. None that she would want to know. I simply didn’t care; And I should have expressed my apathy, or said anything different than what I was about to say, but instead I ask her,
“Would she give me head?”
Direct. Vacant. I still haven’t turned my head to look at her…