SIGHTSEEING THE SKELETONS

BY LESLIE CAIRNS

​

​

            We chased pavement, tapwater edging down the rim of the console. Waiting to be drunk, or to be flecked around our necks.

            We’re traveling over roadkill, over accidents, over dreams chased or long gone. It’s repaved here, but other times it’s only gravel, or upended debris.

 I rake my hands through my sweaty, mangy hair and put it in a drippy ponytail.

            You look over at me, eyes widened.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” you say.

            “I’ve never traveled in a car this long.”
           “Doesn’t it change you?” You replied. You always had an answer to everything.

            I think of raccoons running across highways, thinking they can make it safely

across. Disaster strikes. The deer that used to roam here before the cars came, crescendoing. The way rain can cause mayhem for drivers, then slink away, as if it’s not culpable for anything.

            “Ice pack?” I say. He nods gratefully, and I toss it to him. He places it on his cheeks, which I think is endearing. I wasn’t expecting him to put it anywhere but his back.

            We drive this way for hours. His music: rising notes and hyper lyrics, and then mine. Jazz, slow romance, and tangoes. We don’t fit at all, but the grass in LA called.

And, then, the rainy days of Oregon will be our hollow, where we’ll settle. He got a job; I’m still waiting.

I’m used to waiting. Palms on glass windows, waiting for your childhood party to begin. Balloons and cake are just decorations until there’s an audience. Or, waiting for the track gun to go off, when I was a kid. You waited for the bang, before you showed off your muscle.

Part of this job – my roadtripping pastime–  is not incessantly checking my phone for hours. Waiting for a ping, saying I did or didn’t get something I’ve always wanted.

            I can almost picture the high, open toed shoes I would wear. The way I would file cases and take names. Justice served, and I was part of that. But I don’t want to think too much about it, in case it never becomes a thing. But the dreams are there, all the same: veins under the skin, that show most when you need rainwater, or need to drink.

            “We gotta stop,” He says. I look at him, thinking he’s thinking about my obsession with this job. Of being a paralegal, of all things. Rising the ranks, and becoming the opposite of what my mother said I could be.

            You’ll be a Pre-K teacher, or a substitute. Dainty things, she’d said. I can’t see anything else for you here.

            Her high pitch sneer was only present when we were alone. Her mockery was just as enmeshed into the walls as patterned wallpaper of old school flowers. Both watching where you went, like they were following.

My Mom and I, and the East Coast fireflies.

I hoped I’d never have to see fireflies again, if only for that reason.

            He pulls into a gas station, somewhere outside of Chicago. We don’t have time to stop and get pizza, but I still want to convince him.

            I’ve heard it’s like pies, I said.

            More like lasagne, he said. Pretending to swirl his pretend fork with spaghetti. I said he reminded me of Ariel, in that movie.

            Oh yeah, when we were kids, he said.

            Want anything? He asked.

            You. Your dimples, and your dreams that you’re taking me along with, and my own scattered skin as I nestle down beside you.

            I already know what you want, he says. Snapping his fingers suddenly. Just a coffee. And maybe some water. I know you.

            He lingers away.

            And then my phone pings as he walks inside the gas station. There’s a mass shooting going on right now, in another state. A shooter who is killing people holding bananas that would bruise. Holding their kids clammy hands. Holding something they need.

            My chest constricts and my breathing sallows. I watch you lumber around the gas station floor, and I cannot breathe.

            It’s not the same place. It’s not the same place. Repeating like a mantra.

            But the thing is, I’m states away, and I can still picture my eyes tracking the wallpaper. The fireflies buzzing around blindly as you called my name.

            It’s like it’s right here. So the disaster could come here; we can’t pretend it’s simply apparition.

            You come out with some brightly colored chip bags. A coffee, some sunglasses on your head, even though you do not need them. You’re impulsive that way.

            I shiver. And, I realize you got what you needed. We’ll keep riding in tandem, no need to drive alone.

           
           You get in, and I burrow my hands around your neck.

            “Woah, it’s hot,” you say. You’re talking about the scalding coffee, hitting your lap in drips.

            But I just bury my face in saying your name, and throw  my phone in the unused backseat. The pings only collecting dust, and crumbs, and the soles beneath our feet.

​

​

​​​​

Leslie holds an MA in English Rhetoric from upstate New York. She was an honorable mention in the upcoming Exposition Review's flash fiction competition, as well as has upcoming flash fiction in Loft Limited Books, and poems in: Millennial Pulp, Pink Plastic House, Cerasus Magazine, and Broken Poetry Magazine, and others.
 

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​