JULIE MARIE FOGERSON
THEN AND NOW “Your bitch is behind the mailbox!” I hear the words yelled out somewhere vaguely ahead. I am out with my then-iancé now ex-friend, and we rented a van to haul six people to the nearest waterpark. Lauren really wanted to go, and nobody had any real objections. Some of us, Lauren, are full on excited. Others, me, are indiferently interested. Lauren assures us there will tankards of ale to go with our slip-sliding. What could pairing beer with climbing tall, wet, metal structures hurt? We are picking up a passenger, my then-crush, now ex-lover, and though you may pause and ask, “Wait. What about your then-iancé?” I answer that my then-crush is not then known to me as such. He was always what he is, just not known. Not really right then. Not for a few months later ater we spend a lot more time together, and I understand where the pit of my stomach bottoms. I become a raging klutz from not saying things that need to be said — more to my theniancé than to my then-crush, but it all ties together. As we turn onto DeKalb, my then little brother now ex-conidante thinks it would be funny if I jump out of the car and hide a few beats back from my then-crush’s stoop to scare him. He will innocently walk toward the van, while the van driven by my then-iancé hangs a few measures back from my hunched form and waits. Both machine and I are like sharks, moving but not moving forward. I hear Lauren loudly whisper through the cracked window that my then-crush is coming at the same time as I hear his door shut and his footsteps begin. I tense in glorious anticipation because inspired people never legitimately tire of acting like they’re twelve. A vehicle approaches me from the rear and drives on past, the engine sound roaring louder than the approaching feet. Suddenly, there is yelling. “Your bitch is behind the mailbox!” “What?” Loudly returns my then-crush. “I said, your biiiiitch is behind the maaaailbox,” my
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