Gary, IN
It was raining that morning and you had a headache—it was a rain headache, you told me. We woke up early and for the first time we didn’t have sex before breakfast. We went out and I paid because you did last time. You asked if I had to do anything that day even though I never did and neither did you. You wanted to go somewhere—Detroit, maybe—but that was too far, so you suggested Gary. You talked about how desolate and haunting and beautiful it was supposed to be, that Michael Jackson was born there, and that it was only like an hour away. You ate all the hash browns when I was in the bathroom and I didn’t tell you that you had cilantro in your teeth. I said okay.
You took a twelve-minute shower and washed your hair with white table vinegar like always because shampoo is wasteful and strips your hair of its natural oils. You took my roommate’s copy of Ebony from the bathroom and put it in a yellow plastic bag printed with the words THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU along with a liter of Diet Dr. Pepper, two apples, and my other roommate’s half-eaten jar of peanut butter for the road.
I drove; we listened to “ABC” three times on the way there and you sang along once. You read the multiple-choice questions from Ebony’s “Are You Good-Girl Hot or Bad-Girl Hot” quiz aloud and made a comment about how the magazine was kind of racist. You ran your fingers though my hair as you turned the music down and told me to stop singing. You rested your hand on my thigh and I thought about rainwater and colored plastic and what you thought about love.
Gary was muted, stagnant. Unlit streetlamps loomed over sign-less storefronts, boarded up Baptist churches, barefoot children running across asphalt. We got lost in the car windows and the dead end road we’d been driving down all day opened into water. We walked across the empty beach in our socks and watched the old steel mills belch dead smoke across the shore, saying nothing.
When it started raining again we drove back across the unpeopled asphalt until we found the abandoned cathedral that your photographer friend told you about. We climbed in through a broken window—the word broke was scrawled over the cast iron frame in gold Sharpie. Yellowed bible pages and oranged couch cushions were scattered amongst the patchy flora that filled the chapel. You used my dad’s old Nikon to take a picture of me standing in front of a shattered glass mural. I took pictures of your feet and the dandelions growing in the cathedral crevices as I followed you up the staircase. The rooftop was blanketed in weeds and spray paint cans, a metal office chair turned on its side in the middle. When I kissed you there your lips tasted summery and sour, like a melted milkshake.
I let you drive back home and we got lost again on the way there. You asked me what I was thinking, your eyes absorbed in the road ahead. I reached over and unbuttoned the frayed jean shorts you wore everyday. You squeezed my hand in yours as we drove around with the car tires scraping against the curb until finally we found an alley behind one of the deserted concrete mills. I climbed into the backseat and got undressed except for the sparkly red and blue underwear you bought me at Puerto Rican fest. You wrapped your arms around me and held my head in your hands to keep it from hitting the cup holder. When you came inside me then, it was for the first time. I closed my eyes and felt so warm I wanted to cry, I wanted to tell you I loved you, but didn’t. You stayed as you kissed my forehead and told me how beautiful I looked without makeup.
Later that night at your apartment we lit the Mexican prayer candle we bought from the corner store because we liked the color, La Santisma Muerte—you thought it smelled like melted crayons. We consummated the prayer on your roommate’s bed because the cat peed in yours. We lay there naked in unconditioned air, honeyed and burnt, listening to the eleven o’clock news murmur from the upstairs television and I thought about happiness, and then about broke, and then about nothing. You turned over and looked at me, squinting with unspectacled eyes, and said that you weren’t sure if you were super in love with me. I turned off the light and fell asleep on your glasses.
Brianne LaPelusa co-edits DOLLFEEDER magazine and plays in a band called DOLL FOOD. She lives and writes in Chicago.
