The windshield is frozen. We
start up the car and let the defroster take care
of the ice. The scraper sits in an unconcerned
manner by my feet on the passenger side floor,
making me feel like a suspect in
a murder case.
You are holding an empty water bottle
between your legs. I think of the
shower I took that morning, watching
myself, small beads of white, slip down the drain, being
forced by the water and shampoo, the soap and
the scum into the dark pit.
“Olivia wanted the olives
put on her finger tips,” Jenny snickers.
She is talking to Marv in the backseat about their children,
her breasts heaving under a wool coat. Somewhere
a knife restlessly dreams of tearing itself into
Marv pats my shoulder, his hand lingers.
I grab hold of his two middle fingers. “Need me to
scrape that off for you, champ?” he asks. You say nothing,
staring at the white windshield with closed eyes. I want to
vomit in his mouth and suck out his
“Fuck you, Marv,” is all I manage, betraying my true
intention with a jocular smile.
We left our house after dinner. The egg rolls were
greasy and broke apart too easily. It was Marv’s idea
to go to The Palace, and Jenny was all smiles. In the kitchen
pouring the coffee, your voice was soft.
The cup you gave me had a picture
of a sailboat and seashells.
Two small holes appear in the frost, a vision of black asphalt
invades our car cabin. Your breath is shallow and
your hands are trembling. A part of me longs to run
my fingers through your thick locks of hair, feel the curls
scream as I clench them in my fist and slam your
head into the steering wheel.
I pick up the scraper and leave the car, escaping
into the night, with its fat clouds and the obnoxious purring
of the car engine. Lighting up a cigarette, I think of
the back of your neck and enjoy the feeling
of an erection in its infancy. The car’s windshield explodes,
a spider web of shattered glass.
Back inside our house, I pour a Scotch and watch a documentary
of elephants on the Savannah. The couch feels like a cheese grater.
Marv and Jenny’s footsteps disappear down the street.
Lions appear on the screen as you
cuddle up next to me. I would cry, but its
a lock that I can’t find the combination to.
So I press my lips to the top of your head, and think about
our car’s windshield, pierced as it is by a vengeful ice scraper.