Welcome To My Bed



The drive to New Jersey after work took too long because I made a detour for gas near White Plains and then let myself dawdle about finding new ways the highways connect to one another. I like the idea that all roads cross if you keep driving long enough, though I know it cannot possibly be true, not even half true. I've lost all the mojo I had for good timing, and every other light turns amber just as I get to the line. I fly through anyway and kiss my hand, then press it to the visor. I never used to do this. It's something I saw for the first time driving with two girls I took portfolio development class with at Old Church when I was a junior in high school. Michelle drove a Honda, or maybe it was the other girl who went to Westwood High. I don't remember. They both had what I thought were much cooler clothes than mine. When we sped through a yellow light one or both of them kissed their palm and pressed it to the visor, saying, "You have to do that, otherwise you're doomed to terrible sex." We then got coffees with our teacher at Rohrs' before I ever even dreamed of working there. A few months later I was counting out the register, always estimating the nickels because adding by fives didn't mix well with the rest of me. Someone found a stack of old Playboys in the trash at the school down the street once and brought them in while I was on shift. We spent a lot of time on the back couch turning the pages sideways and cutting out body parts for collages we tacked up over the sink.

When I am here, this is how it comes back. All of it. All at once. A handful of voices yelling from every party I left early. "I haven't seen you in so long! Where do you go to school again?"