The Madison Review Fall 2017

the madison review

“The body is transient,” I say, and make the sign of the cross over him.

“All clean.”

Minutes pass, and I decide I don’t care about the fucking stars anymore. I lead him back downstairs and down the gravel path to my car. I put the key into the ignition and almost drive us back to the bar. Then I recline in my seat and turn toward Cole.

“You ready to go home yet?”

“No.”

I climb over into the passenger seat with him. He lies back and I sit up.

We’re both trembling. He reaches out and brushes the hair behind my ear. His breath sort of quakes, short sounds in the stillness, like a sheet of ice cracking beneath us. I lay my head on his chest. A minute goes by, maybe two, ten, listening to his heartbeat slow back down. I kiss his chest, and then I look at him and I kiss him. After that I’m not sure when we’re awake and when we’re not. We do make out a little bit. He’s a decent kisser. But when I feel the moist warmth of his body on my cheek, smell the traces of detergent in the fabric of his shirt, I don’t want to move and neither does he.

Joshua and I play gin at the security desk. It’s almost three a.m., but I slept till noon after dropping off Cole this morning and besides, I don’t feel like sleeping. This is my favorite time at the plaza. The automatic doors almost startle you, hailing solitary road trippers, meth-heads, rock and roll bands on tour. Highway ghosts, like you are.

“He studies architecture,” I say.

Joshua raises his eyebrows, as if to acknowledge that I said something.

“He seems kind of arty,” I add. “I guess I see it.”

“And this one’s not married?” he says.

“Eat shit.”

I brought my towel and a half-bottle of shampoo. I’m out of soap. My legs don’t quite reach the floor in the swivel chair he pulled up for me, so I twist slowly as we play amid the noise from the video poker machines in the truckers’ lounge. One of the janitors wheels a garbage can full of supplies out of the men’s room, and we nod to him.

Joshua is fixated on his cards. “My wife,” he says, clearing his throat, “got a cat.”

“...And you don’t like it?” I say.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Are you allergic?”

“I just said she got a cat.” His radio crackles, some new kid making his hourly report to the desk. We ignore it.

“I think I’d like having a cat,” I say.

“If you weren’t living in a car?”

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