On Empty

You scour the edge of the mall parking lot and come across a ‘95 Dodge Caravan, the blue of rivers at a mini-golf course. With no one near, you unscrew the broken gas cap, thinking of Cheeks, whose “Fuck this, fuck that” commentary could calm your hands as you lower the siphon into the tank.

You crouch against the wheel. You suck the plastic tube until flecks of gasoline ignite the sores of your bitten tongue. Your stomach unfurls, the taste of vomit strangled in your nose hair. This was always Cheeks’ job; he would raise the siphon and say, “To you, who hath no balls,” then swish the gas around like it was Listerine.

The van’s lights flash. Two honks. Again, a flash. Two honks. In the next row over, a woman carrying a shopping bag from Kids Footlocker holds her keys above her head. Your instinct is to run. But she reminds you of the mannequins in display windows and you stare at her, no longer wondering if there are plastic nipples on the breasts, but if this woman’s body was tailor-made for that green dress. She pinches her phone in the nook of her neck and shoulder. You hear her voice. It moistens your flammable lips.

The night before Cheeks left, you both stood on the fire escape, smoking weed out of an apple; Cheeks ate the core. He showed you bus tickets to New York, for him and Gabrielle.

Cheeks said, “You’re killing me.”

You said, “You started it.”

He grabbed your neck, pulled your head into his chest, and kissed the bald spot he gave you so much shit for since freshman year.

Now this woman is standing over you alone, and she says, “Excuse me?” as if she is the one interrupting you. You can’t look her in the eye. She is so clean and good that you only want to swim in her scorn of you.

“I’m trying to quit,” you say.

Then you give her everything in your wallet—eighty-seven dollars and a few sticks of gum. You explain to her how to fix the cap, that your money should cover the costs. While pouring the gas back into her tank, you ask, “What’s in the bag?” and she hesitates but shows you baby Nikes for her nephew, tiny versions of the shoes you’re wearing. At this, she smiles and you feel like you’re flying a kite again, the moment before the string slips away, when gravity reverses and life’s pull turns upwards. And before the two of you part ways, you get to talking about Cheeks and his leaving, how this is all because of him. “You’re blaming your friend?” she asks. You tell her no. Cheeks was always first—to steal, to fuck, to love—and even though he could have, he never said a word when you came running, a day late and a buck short.

● ● ●