“See, it only happens going up hills.” The engine coughed — brghuhpgh — and shifted its gears. “Especially if I speed up.” Leon stuck his feet out the window. It wasn’t spring yet, but he wanted it to be. Dried mud flaked off his boots and hit the side of my car. “You should probably move,” he said. “Nothing to do in this town but drive up hills and speed.” We crossed the river, then crossed it again. On one side you saw the Catskills, and on the other side you were in them. Both views were stunning, but Leon snorted and shrugged — he’d seen it a bajillion-trillion times. He directed us back and forth across the river, shouting over the metallic hum each time we crossed the bridge. He wanted to talk about his painting teacher at the community college. She was Swedish and strong, an oak tree with breasts, a Barbie on steroids. “Six-foot-four in lambskin slippers. I once watched her eat two bratwurst sandwiches, a bowl of potatoes, sauerkraut, and a pitcher of beer — for lunch!” He squeaked with delight. I took a hard left and cursed myself for being human-sized. “One night I saw her on the street. She’d had ten shots of tequila — ten! ‘Oh ja!’ she said, ‘One too many, ja!’ But she wasn’t even drunk. She rode home on my handlebars.” I could picture this woman gliding through town like a boat with a really nice ass, smiling at the men who left their little homes to run beside her rudder. “She’s so happy,” said Leon. “So big and so happy.” He wanted to test the car on steeper terrain, so I took an unpaved road that led deeper into the forest. It occurred to me that we could have sex at any moment, just park in the shade and start clawing. It would be our first time, which meant he’d have no idea what I used to look like or how my legs used to feel when they parted. If I pressed our heads together hard enough, we would feel the skulls beneath the skin that kept our brains apart. We rose into the mountains. I thought I could run there, maybe, if I were careful. A new pair of track shoes lived in the trunk of my car, purchased last month in a moment of idealism and guilt. I hid them under a blanket so their whiteness wouldn’t hurt my eyes. “I love these roads,” Leon said. “They’re always different. Rocks move, holes form, the mud slides down the side. Trees get hit by lightning,
Jessie Marshall
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