A McGriddle and a Cigarette

Part One

When Bonnie was three, a girl in her class told Bonnie,

            “Princesses don’t wear corduroys.”

Bonnie’s mother always dressed Bonnie in corduroys.

Bonnie never wanted to be a princess. Princesses were boring. Princesses hung out with birds and got stuck in tall towers. Princesses had to get married without going on a first date. Princesses had to live with their moms.

When Bonnie got home, she told her mother she didn’t want to wear overalls anymore.

“What do you want to wear instead?” Her mother asked.

“I don’t know.”

At twelve years old, she decided to kill herself. Rot from the outside in. She shot her true self in the face, gutted her insides, then put the skin back on — ready to become a new human.

            Bonnie was smart. Smart girls weren’t popular. Smart girls had to sit at the front of class and be a teacher’s pet. Smart girls had to eat on the toilet so nobody would know they were alone at lunch.

            “You have mosquito bite titties,” a boy told her.

            “You would be more attractive if you put a bag over your head,” a boy told her.

She went to the bathroom during class one day, and when she came back, “Only pretty girls can walk through this door.”

            Bonnie believed them. There was a collective agreement that she was ugly. And ugly is the worst thing you can be at twelve years old.

            But Bonnie kept showing up — kept hanging out with the boys who told her she was ugly. To Bonnie, insults were that good pain. That good pain like swirling full-sugar soda pop on a rotting tooth, where it burns and itches, yanking on all of your nerves.

            “At least people are telling the truth,” Bonnie would say. “I’d rather someone tell me the truth than tell me I’m pretty and be lying.”

What Bonnie didn’t know is that everyone is ugly when they’re twelve.

What Bonnie did know was that she was ugly and smart. And that was the worst thing a woman could be.

Bonnie watched enough movies and copied enough outfits to be invited to smaller parties. Bonnie was part of that less than popular crowd, but not unpopular enough to be lonely. One step down, but not at the bottom of the staircase. And that was enough for her.

When Bonnie had her first drink, she took the first breath she had taken since emerging from her mother’s vagina. Bonnie’s first drink was the moment after placenta was wiped from her screaming body, the moment she was placed into her mother’s arms.

By the time Bonnie was twenty-six, she was living in a van.

Not one of those sketchy vans — not the one you’re thinking of. No signs advertising free candy.

It was part Mystery Machine, part Mercedes Benz.

“I’m tired of committing to a twelve-month lease,” Bonnie would say.

What Bonnie didn’t say was that she couldn’t afford one.

Bonnie could afford to pay Some Guy From the internet eight hundred dollars. She could afford to fix it up to mediocre status for an extra three hundred.

Bonnie could afford one sheet of acid tabs for seventy more. Some Guy From the Internet said it was the best trip he could sell. Better than any trip she’d take in the van.

Some Guy From the Internet reeked of cigars and old cat food. He sold Bonnie the van in a Walmart parking lot.

“I’m gonna see the world,” Bonnie said. “Or at least the United States.”

“You’ll probably see dancing monkeys, too, with one of those tabs.”

Some Guy From the Internet opened the back doors and crawled in, lifting the tire cover. He told her he’d made a compartment for this exact purpose, like a pocketbook for gold coins. He told her this pocketbook would help her avoid a felony.

Bonnie climbed into the driver’s seat and stared at the dashboard.

            “Where are you gonna go?” Some Guy From the Internet asked.

            “I don’t know,” Bonnie said. “Somewhere far.”

            “You should check out the Grand Canyon,” Some guy from the internet said. “I hear there are faces of the presidents out there.”

            “You might be right.”

This is what Bonnie told people when she knew they were wrong. So Bonnie headed toward the Grand Canyon.

The first hour of the drive was an alternate universe. Bonnie passed eons of clover fields spreading like an epidemic. Houses were dropped at random — as if God put a hand over his eyes and let them run between his fingers like grains of sand. Bonnie passed a farm. A man stood on the porch, watching her, like she was an alien, like he forgot humans existed. Bonnie saluted him, but he didn’t reciprocate.

Driving put Bonnie into a trance — she knew there was some phrase for it, or a proverb or something. Whatever it was, it was one of those things that perfectly captured whatever she would have wanted to say. Those feelings only poets can describe. Bonnie was never a good poet. The road became a Rolodex of pavement scrolling towards her. That was the best poetry she could come up with.

A speck darted up, down, and around on the shoulder of the highway.

It turned out to be a man — a boy, really. He’d stopped and restarted growing multiple times, like splices of film reeled together to form disproportionate limbs.

The boy stuck his thumb out.

Don’t do it, the little voice in her head said.

You know that little voice — the one you can’t ignore.

Bonnie slowed down and asked where he was going. She didn’t know the difference between courage and stupidity.

The boy said he didn’t know. South, probably.

Bonnie asked him how old he was. He said twenty-six.

            “You’re lying,” Bonnie said, “But get in the car.”

The boy told Bonnie all sorts of stories — how he’d been to The Grand Canyon multiple times, he’d even met the spice girls there. He said he would have shown Bonnie a picture, but he’d lost his phone.

“Hey,” Bonnie said, “I’m gonna pull into this gas station, I gotta pee.”

Bonnie pulled up to a sign in faded orange letters: Come on in, we’re OPEN.

“This isn’t a gas station,” he said. “This is an outhouse pretending to be a gas station. Probably get murdered.”

“You coming in?” Bonnie asked.

“Nah, I’m gonna smoke a bowl. Pull around and park on the side.”

Bonnie did as she was told.

The gas station was an absolute fraud. The foods were off brand, with some clever name to avoid copyright, but still wink at the consumer.

Bonnie pulled a Yellow Cow energy drink from the fridge and looked at the sandwiches. Chicken and egg salad breathed and cried for help.

“Welcome to The Oasis,” A man behind the counter muttered.

He looked young. Somewhere between college and the real world. He had the kind of beard that only men in their mid twenties can get away with — scruff that’s about three days too late, but not so late you’d mistrust the food they cooked.

“Lotto ticket?” The cashier asked.

“No, thanks. Quit a few months ago. Can I grab a pack of Marlboro reds?”

“Alright, the fee for that mood-altering substance is gonna be nine ninety-eight.” Bonnie handed him her card.

“You think this counts as a mood-altering substance?” She asked.

“Sure, it does. You try stopping those things and see how your mood turns out.”

Bonnie fake laughed, paid, and thanked him. What an asshole.

When she turned around the side of the building,

Her van was gone.

No, not her van.

Her house.

All of her belongings.

No, not all of her belongings.

All of her belongings except her wallet, a Yellow Cow energy drink, and a pack of Marlboro reds.

Bonnie stared at the twelve feet of parking lot, mouth open.

Bonnie walked circles around the gas station in a daze.

            “You loggin’ miles out here, or what?” The clerk asked, peering out from behind the door.

            “Where the fuck is my van?”

            “Uh…maybe your friend took it for a spin?”

When Bonnie was a kid, she had recurring nightmares where she’d be in her house, standing in the middle of the living room. The carpet would stretch towards the front door, and in slow motion a man would walk up to the front door. She’d see him peering in with a sneer as he began to turn the handle. There’d be that squirm in her gut, knowing what came next. Bonnie would attempt a scream, but couldn’t catch her breath. And the man was getting closer.

This is what happened to Bonnie’s voice when she tried to yell in that parking lot.

            “Wait — don’t go anywhere.” The cashier said, running back into the shop.

“Here,” he said, and tossed Bonnie a brown paper bag.

Bonnie opened the bag and peered in.

            “McGriddles?” She asked.

            “For your troubles. I’m Pete, by the way.” Pete outstretched his hand.

            “Dude, I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere and you think I need a McGriddle and a cigarette?’

            “Well, yeah. You look like you need it.” He pulled one out for himself and ate half in one bite.

“What the fuck am I gonna do about my van?” Bonnie asked.

            “Well,” Pete said with his mouth full, morphing the wrapper into a sphere, “I’ll be done here at nine, I’ll drive you to the nearest police station in the morning. It’s about four hours.”

The image of the torn tire cover loomed in Bonnie’s brain.

            “I can’t go to the police.”

            “Why not?” Pete asked, “You on the run or something?”

            “Of course not — wait, four hours? Where the fuck are we?”

            “Someone’s got a potty mouth,” Pete grinned.

Bonnie sat on the curb and bit into the sticky sandwich.

            “Where did you even get this?” She asked. “There isn’t a McDonald’s for miles.”

            “There’s preservatives.”

Pete reached into the bag and grabbed another pancake sandwich.

The two chewed in silence.

Bonnie didn’t know how she was supposed to act. Should she pretend to be interested? Masculine? Feminine? Platonic? Weak? Strong? She had no character base.

Pete’s living room consisted of two camping chairs set up in front of a TV, using a reinforced cardboard box as its stand. Pete ran over to one of the camping chairs and pushed it towards the tv, like a butler moving an armchair. Bonnie thanked him and sat down.

“You want a beer?” He asked.

“Nah, I quit. But thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Pete sat down in the other chair and turned the tv on.

            “You like baseball?” He asked.

            “I haven’t watched it in awhile,” Bonnie said. What she didn’t say was that she hated baseball, that it was like getting teeth pulled, but the dentist was Babe Ruth’s ghost.

Bonnie watched Pete sip his beer. Nurse it, more like. Bonnie hadn’t seen anyone drink like that before — like they didn’t care how fast it would kick in, or whether they had enough in the fridge to last a lifetime.

            Pete stole side glances throughout the game. The girl was impossible to read.

Pete didn’t know how he was supposed to act. Macho? Gentle? Romantic? Platonic?

She sat frigid, as if the apartment had air conditioning during a snowstorm. Her face was blank, staring at the screen without watching the game. Bonnie lit a cigarette. Pete couldn’t get a read on her. But she was a beginning, he knew it. The beginning of what, he couldn’t be sure, but in that moment, he knew life changed.

“You can take the bed,” Pete said, attempting to be nonchalant.

            “Sorry?”

            “I’ll sleep on the couch. You seem tired — not that you look tired, I just mean you’ve had a rough day.”

Bonnie slept like shit that night.

That night, Bonnie had a dream.

            She was on a tour of a museum — some art museum she’d never seen before. Sculptures of women dancing, frozen in place, stared at Bonnie as she was guided into the room. She knew she was there for work — the inner knowing that dreams evoke, even when the scene is irrational and unrecognizable. Soon the tour guide was gone, and Bonnie was left to give the tour.

            “This is by Francesca DeGavo,” Bonnie found herself saying. She knew she was right without knowing how or why. “She was an American artist, but when she started sculpting, nobody would buy her paintings. Sculpting was her passion, but she was losing money just by practicing — so she changed her name to give the impression she was an Italian man. At that point in time, only Italian sculptors were respected by the rich. And nobody would even think of buying a sculpture by a woman.”

            Bonnie felt pride well in her chest as she glided to the next sculpture.

            “This is—“

            “What was her real name?” A little girl asked.

Bonnie looked down.

            “Who?”

            “Francesca.”

            “Oh,” Bonnie stammered. She couldn’t catch her breath. The rose pink walls of the museum began to move, sliding toward her from all sides. The little girl stared up at Bonnie, waiting for an answer. Bonnie tried to speak, but couldn’t catch her breath.

            “Her name was,” Bonnie stammered, “It was—“

“Bonnie! Wake up!”

Pete knocked on the wall above the bed and she sat upright, gasping.

            “You were screaming,” Pete said, “And you either pissed yourself or sweat through my sheets. You okay?”

            “What? Yeah, I’m good. I’m good.”

            In the car, Pete flipped through some static radio stations but found nothing.

            “We ride in silence.”

Bonnie wasn’t sure if she was supposed to laugh.

            “So, you got any good stories?” Pete asked.

            “I don’t think so,” Bonnie said. “Do you?”

            “I got a bunch, but I don’t know if you’d like them. They’re kinda…what’s that word..” Pete snapped his fingers.

            “Crude?”

            “Yeah, maybe.”

            “Try me.”

            “So, my friend and I, we went on this vacation to Puerto Rico — there was this beach, super beautiful, but my friend, he was totally obsessed with seeing a shark. So we’re out scuba diving, having a nice time, and he’s just tweaking out in the corner—“

            “Like, meth tweaking?” Bonnie asked.

            “Nah, you know— just twitchy. So he’s tweakin’ out in the corner, totally not focused on what’s going on. Eventually I tell him, hey man, let’s just go — not in an angry way, I’m just trying to accommodate the dude. So we get to this next beach, there’s supposed to be a bunch of sharks there. No people on the beach, pretty good sign. We get in the water, get our gear on, and start swimming. My friend is stoked, but still in a twitchy, weird way. Anyway, we’re out there swimming, for like, an hour. My legs are getting tired, but I don’t wanna let my buddy down, so I just start floating on my back. There’s no rushing this guy — he’s one of those people who, if he gets fixated on something, that’s it — no other thought or thing could enter his brain. What do you call those?”

            “Men.” Bonnie said.

            “Nice. So anyways, I’m laying on my back, right, and all of a sudden, my friend shouts, he goes, ‘Dude it’s right fucking under you.’”

            Bonnie raised her eyebrows in response, like she was supposed to. 

            “It was just one of those things where we looked for hours and then after we left it be, it just came. Like a god thing.”

            “Did you get bit?” Bonnie asked. 

            “Not with god there,” Pete grinned.

            “That’s not a true story.”

            “Of course it is, do you not believe in god?”

            “Not really. I mean, sometimes I’ve felt something — like when I was in my van coming through the mountains, I had this experience of feeling…I don’t know, connected to everything? That probably sounds stupid.”

Pete took another drag of his cigarette and spoke through the smoke in a muffle.

            “Doesn’t sound stupid. Sounds human.”

            “I guess,” Bonnie grunted. They sat in silence, blowing smoke out of their respective windows. “What do you mean it was like a god thing?” She asked.

            “I mean,” Pete adjusted himself to sit higher in the seat, “Like stuff just…works out. But usually when you’re not trying.”

Bonnie smiled.

            “Does that make sense?” He asked.

            “No.”

Pete laughed and shook his head, lit another cigarette.

            “You chain smoke?” Bonnie asked.

            “Yeah.”

            “What does god think about that?”

            “I think god is in everything — even this cigarette right here.” Pete pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and examined it.

            “Oh, like in the filter?”

It was supposed to be a joke, but there was a pang in Bonnie’s heart, like she’d spat on a kid’s birthday cake.

            “Maybe,” Pete said. “But I think god is in sharing — so, yeah, god might be in the filter.”

            “Are you a Christian?” Bonnie asked.

            “Sometimes.”

            “And the other times?”

            “Not Christian. Buddhist, Jewish….mostly just Pete.”

            “What keeps you around? Like in your faith.”

            “What, you mean, like my religion?”

            “Yeah, or just god in general.”

            “I don’t have enough faith to be an atheist.”

They were two hours into the drive, and Bonnie hadn’t seen anything but cornfields and mile markers. Bonnie figured Pete wouldn’t put this much effort into murdering her — it would be costing him a lot of gas money.

            “There’s a rest stop in about ten miles, we can stop there to pee and grab food.” Pete looked down at the half empty pack in his lap. “And maybe some more cigarettes.”

            Bonnie nodded, pretending to know how long it would take to go ten miles.

A few minutes passed before Golden Arches loomed into their line of vision.

“That is what I’m talkin’ about!” Pete yelled. “More McGriddles, baby.”

Bonnie hated being called baby.

            “Can we do the drive thru?” Bonnie asked.

            “You don’t have to pee? I’m gonna be honest, I’ve had to take a shit for the past, like, fifteen miles.”

            “I’ll stay in the car.”

            “Why?” Pete laughed, “You gonna take off with my car?”

            “No,” Bonnie said, without looking at him.

            “If you think I’m running you can hold onto the keys.”

Bonnie smiled but didn’t raise her head.

McGriddles and cigarettes in tow, they got back on the road.

            “Actually, I do have a story for you.” Bonnie said.

            “Hit me.” Pete bit into his McGriddle, dribbling flecks of egg into his lap.

            “When I was in college — can I have a cigarette?” Pete passed the pack. “Thank you. When I was in college, this guy took me on a date to Buffalo Wild Wings.”

            “Uh-huh. What was his name?”

            “God, I can’t remember. Anyway, we’re on the date, and across the room I see this waitress—“

            “Was she hot?”

            “I’m getting there — her name was Eileen. But yes, she was hot. I’m telling you, I literally could not focus on the rest of the date I was so busy staring at her.”

            “Did you ask her out?”

            “No, worse. For the next six months, every time I went on a date, I asked the guy if he would meet me at Buffalo Wild Wings.”

            “You and your boyfriend went to the same—?”

            “No,” Bonnie laughed, “I mean I made every random guy meet me at Buffalo Wild Wings over the span of six months—“

            Pete laughed, “You’re insane.”

            “Just to see her and hope she would recognize me.”

            “So, what happened, did you ask her out?”

            “No, I got super drunk and told her…she had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen in a Buffalo Wild Wings.”

            “What an opener.”

            “What an opener, exactly. I haven’t been back since.”

            “What the hell is wrong with you?” Pete asked.

            “I know, it’s so embarrassing.”

            “No, why wouldn’t you go back? Maybe she thought you had beautiful eyes, too.”

            “Because —“

            “Because you were scared.”

            “I wasn’t scared.”

            “You were scared — you were scared you’d get what you wanted and fuck it up. Who knows, maybe you would’ve fallen in love.”

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bonnie crossed her arms and sunk in her seat.

            “Can’t argue with that,” Pete muttered.

Bonnie left a few moments of silence before asking, “Have you ever been in love?”

            “Kind of, once.”

            “Uh huh…” Bonnie mentally rolled her eyes.

            “Beautiful girl, heart of gold, anything I could have asked for.”

            “Yeah.”

            “And I just had this gnawing feeling anytime we were together, like there was some puppy yipping at me, trying to get my attention.”

            “What was it trying to tell you?” Bonnie asked, reaching into the McDonald’s bag.

            “I don’t know…it was that thing where, I didn’t wanna listen to the dog. But it just kept barking louder, and louder, and louder, and then…”

            “And then what?” Bonnie asked.

            “And then…nothing. I broke it off. I just wanted that damn dog to stop barking.”

Bonnie shrugged, “Maybe she just wasn’t right for you.”

            “Maybe…” Pete said, squinting his eyes as he turned the steering wheel. “Or maybe it just wasn’t the right timing.”

            “I don’t believe in all that.”

            “All what?” Pete asked.

            “The timing thing.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because, if it’s the right person there’s no wrong time, right?”

            “How do you know?” Pete asked.

            “Know what?”

            “Know that.”

            “That if it’s the right person there’s never a wrong time?”

            “Yeah. That’s a pretty big assumption. Like how do you know know.” Pete said, raising his eyebrows.

            “What, are you in middle school?”

            “Why would that put me in middle school?”

            “You’re confusing me,” Bonnie said. “Point is, there’s no right person at the wrong time. When something’s done, it’s done. Puzzle pieces don’t fit. End of story.”

            “Do you think people are as unchanging as puzzle pieces?” Pete asked.

Bonnie’s face churned like she smelled something bad. Pete laughed.

            “I guess not,” she said. “But I think compatibility is like a puzzle. Fixed, I mean. If you’re not compatible it’s like… taking two puzzle pieces and trying to fit them together…over and over when they just don’t match up.”

            “Yeah, I don’t really believe in the timing thing, either.” Pete said, “I think that’s something people tell themselves when a relationship doesn’t work out. That it was the timing. Then they don’t have to blame themselves for the stuff they did wrong.”

            “What do you feel like you did wrong?” Bonnie asked.

            “I didn’t appreciate her. Or at least I didn’t tell her when I did.”

            “What did you appreciate about her?” Bonnie asked.

Pete exhaled like a pucker fish.

            “Uh…she was kind. And solitary — she liked being alone. And she was smart. I was so caught up in trying to look smarter, run faster, all that jazz…but she was…emotional.”

            “Is that a bad thing?”

            “No…but it was the type of emotion — it was so…intense. More like erratic, actually. Like her world was ending and it was somehow my fault. And even if it wasn’t, it was still somehow my responsibility.”

            “Who made it your responsibility?” Bonnie asked.

“What do you mean?”

            “Like, did she put that on you or was that something you put on yourself?”

            “You sound like my therapist.”

Bonnie laughed, “I’m just asking.”

            “I’ll have to think about that…” Pete said, “But it was definitely wrong. Definitely the wrong relationship.”

            “Okay…”

            “All I know is,” Pete said, tapping the steering wheel, “Is, when I go out with someone I don’t wanna have to hear a nasty imaginary dog.”

            “So naturally, you break up with her. So the dog goes away.”

            “Naturally,” Pete smiled. “No, in all truthfulness, I think that dog yapping is a form of god…that feeling in your gut that knows when something’s wrong. Emotions pass, but those gut feelings don’t. I think that feeling is more of an experience than an emotion.”

            Bonnie gave a slow nod.

“You want another McGriddle?” She asked.

Pete pulled into the driveway of a motel. It was almost midnight, but the sky was still light. The Moon told Earth not to sleep, not yet. Pete jabbed Bonnie’s side and she twitched awake.

            “I gotta take a break, I figure we can sleep here.”

Bonnie looked out the window. “This looks like the setting of Psycho.”

Pete said nothing.

            “I’m sorry,” she continued, “I was trying to be funny. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

Pete laughed.

            “You know,” he said, pulling into a parking space, “You have a lot of guilt. Sometimes warranted, sometimes not.”

            “Oh. I’m sorry.”

            “There you go again. I’ll tell you if you fucked up, don’t worry.”

They stepped out of the car and went into the office. The motel had a color scheme of green and yellow.  

            Bonnie rang the bell. An older woman stepped out from behind the wall of the register. She smelled like stale cigarettes.

            “Can I help you?”

            “Yeah, uh…do you have any rooms available? I didn’t see a vacancy sign out front.” Pete said.

            “What do you think, kid? This town isn’t exactly a tourist trap.”

Pete nodded.

            “How many nights?” The woman asked.

            “Just one,” Bonnie said, “We won’t be staying long.”

            “Go outside and to the left. It’s all the way at the end. Come back for coffee in the morning.”

            Pete and Bonnie thanked her and left the building.

            “How many beds did you get?” Bonnie asked.

            “Two. You tryna’ say something?”

Bonnie turned bright red.

            “Lighten up, girl,” Pete laughed, “We spend enough time together already.”

The room looked like every motel room ever made. Each bed had a quilt with too many colors. Reds and greens and blues with some indiscernible pattern of lines and circles and triangles. Each bed had a nightstand. Each nightstand had a lamp. Only one of them worked. The nightstands were on opposite sides of the bed — no nightstands in between. Like the nightstands were made for secrets that each person kept from the other, far enough away to be protected but not out of sight.

            Bonnie opened the drawer to find a pen, pad of paper, and a bible inside.

“I think someone left their shit behind.” She said.

            “Anything good?” Pete asked.

Bonnie pulled out the pad of paper.

            “It’s a poem.”

            “Oh god, let’s hear it.”

            “You want me to read it out loud?”

            “Well, sure,” Pete said, “That’s the best way to digest it.”

Bonnie held the pad of paper in front of her face. Her neck stiffened, and little volts of electricity slid up behind her ears.

            “Woe is me, the poor traveler who walks these streets. Woe is the/time of day when the world is asleep, contemplating/how to make it one more day. Woe is the/rooster who calls and gets no answer. Woe is the father/ who wakes without his daughter, wondering/Who she has chosen. Woe is the mother who wonders—“ Bonnie stopped and cleared her throat. “It stops there.”

            “Well that’s depressing.” Pete said.

But it didn’t stop there. There was more, which Bonnie tucked into her nightstand, that secret in plain sight. The full poem read as follows:

            Woe is me, the poor traveler who walks these streets. Woe is the

            Time of day when the world is asleep, contemplating

            How to make it one more day. Woe is the

            Rooster who calls and gets no answer. Woe is the father

            Who wakes without his daughter, wondering

            Who she has chosen. Woe is the mother who wonders

            What she could have done better, made her daughter a sweater, or

            Anything to have made her come home.

            Woe is the child, who should have stayed for awhile, to see the dear

            End of the road.

Bonnie laid down on her bed, and Pete pulled the covers over him, looking at his decrepit lamp.

            “You know, Pete,” Bonnie whispered, “I think you need bigger plans for your life.”

            “Where did that come from?”

            “I mean,” Bonnie turned towards him, “You could do so much better than working at a gas station. I’m just saying. I think you’re capable of so much.”

            “I have bigger plans for my life…”

            “Such as?”

            “Becoming a detective and helping random females find things they shouldn’t have lost in the first place.” He flicked off the light.

            Bonnie’s heart sank. What she didn’t say was thank you, I owe you big time. What she didn’t say was, god, don’t you know how much acid I’m going to give you when we find this van. She didn’t know what she should have said. So she prayed.

            God help me.

            Pete laid in silence pretending to be asleep. The anger and fear smoothied through his veins as he tossed and turned to shake it out. Like an aggressive rotisserie chicken trying to escape the pole. He’d drink water. Turn on a guided meditation. Eat a cheese stick. To no avail. He used to sleep well at his girlfriend’s house. Her warm body added a blanket of safety more than his stuffy comforter ever could. But once he was back in his own home, the coursing returned. Pete would come up with a million excuses as to why this was. We had sex, so I was exhausted. She has air conditioning, and a cat, she — but he couldn’t un-know what he knew. He knew it was love, even if she wasn’t the right person. That kind of love that’s mixed with dread and shame, where you know you need to leave and don’t know how. That bridge to freedom seems too broad, too long. It entailed grief and envy and sadness. But most of all, it entailed being alone.

Bonnie woke before Pete the next morning. She pulled a sweater over her head and walked down to the office.

            “Morning,” The clerk said. Her cigarette smell had been refreshed.

            “Good morning,” Bonnie said. “Have you been here since last night?”

            “Honey, I’ve been here for two days. Next shift hasn’t shown up. Doubt if he ever will.”

Bonnie sat down at the singular table. It had a plastic table cloth, red and white checkered, like an Italian restaurant that served breakfast and coffee made of burnt rubber.

            The clerk poured Bonnie a cup.

            “What’s your name?” Bonnie asked.

            “Marilyn. After the great Monroe.” The woman laughed, gasping for breaths.

            “Hi Marilyn.” Bonnie gulped her coffee and tried to hide a grimace. The grounds crept between her teeth. “What’s there to do around here?”

            “Well, in the winter I ski.” Marilyn pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

            “Do you mind if I..?” Bonnie asked.

            “By all means,” Marilyn muffled, passing Bonnie the pack and a lighter.

Bonnie loved the sound of a lighter – scrolling that pinwheel and clicking, hearing the rush of fluid transform into flame.

            “You ski?” Bonnie asked.

            “Oh, yeah. Til the day I die.”

            “What do you feel like…what draws you in?”

            “Oh, sister…when I’m out there…I’m not my body. I’m not how I look, I’m not my age…I’m some ravenous animal…I morph into some hunter-gatherer. But not human— just light.”

            “I wanna feel like light.” Bonnie said.

            “You should try amphetamines.” Marilyn laughed until she coughed. Bonnie gave a nervous smile. “But seriously kid, you can feel however you wanna feel.”

            “God, I wish.”

The two stared at each other in silence while Bonnie sipped her coffee.

            “Lemme tell you a secret, kid,” Marilyn said, leaning in, “Life don’t drop on you like some cartoon anvil from the sky. It’s the moment to moment decisions. That’s how you feel like light.”

            Pete awoke in the motel room, alone. A moment of panic shot up through his chest, draining the saliva from his mouth — until he saw Bonnie’s luggage by the door, clothing strewn out of it. Like she’d ransacked her own belongings. Pete sat on the bed and let his heart rate slow. How could he be helpful? Helpful, helpful, helpful, how do I be helpful. He made his own bed, then Bonnie’s, un-ransacked her suitcase, and did a final once-over of the room.

Pete opened Bonnie’s nightstand and paused, seeing the poem — and the pieces he didn’t hear.

Pete knocked on the sliding glass door and walked in.

            “You ready to check out?” He asked.

            “Alright toots,” Marilyn said, “I’ll take you over at the desk.”

            When they walked out to the car, Bonnie froze. She wanted to throw one big tantrum at the sky, walk over and punch the dude driving. Instead, in a low voice, Bonnie mumbled,

“That’s my van.”

“What did you say? You know I can’t hear you when you mumble like that.”

“Pete,” Bonnie said, “That’s my van.”