He and She

Hot Air

Saturday, June 14

I tried not to think about it. I tried not to think about anything, to dissolve the act of thinking entirely. And it worked for a while, until I realized that I was thinking about not thinking.

And then I thought: Fuck, it's hot.

And it was. The car hummed along on the road, trapping me in with Hell itself, the unair-conditioned version.

My shirt stuck to my back, damp with sweat. My hair was plastered to my forehead. Everything was sticky and sweaty and uncomfortable.

But the worst part was the air. Not only did the sun bitch slap everything across the face the minute it stepped outside, but the humidity gave us all a pretty good reason to stop breathing. Breathing hot air feels miserable, crowded by heat that hovers on your skin and makes any claustrophobic resort to suicide.

Me? I just squirm.

I see the rec center coming up outside my window, and everything inside of me feels like puking, everything. I feel my literal existence being suffocated, I feel the weight, I see the car hood imploding, the car swerves and were flipping, crushing, everything's flying, flying by too fast, and it's all coming down on me, slamming doors, slamming, crushing, flying, dying.

And then it's not happening. And were driving. And I remind myself to breathe.

God damn hot air.

She parks the car, twisting the keys to shut off the ignition. I keep still in my seat, waiting for her to start talking. I know she will, by the way she holds her breath and lets it out, trying to filter a tired sigh into a small wisp of breath.

I can feel her hurt. I feel it all over me.

"Do you want me to come in with you? Just to the front desk?"

I look at my mother, her tender brown eyes giving her away. I know she wants to, she wants to make sure I get in there safely not because she thinks I'll pull a gun on myself the minute the doors close behind me but because she thinks I'll pull the trigger without being there with her.

And though that would seem selfish, it's also sad that my mother has wholeheartedly devoted herself to the idea that I will die by my own hands and resorts to being there as some kind of justice to it.

She is so fragile. So weak.

"No. I'm fine."

Mom pursed her lips, making them thin and hard. She smiled tightly, but her eyes filled with such love and pleading, such hurt and adoration.

I looked away. I should be kinder to her, I should cave and tell her I love her when she hurts for me like this. But I don't. Its for her own good, toughen her up. She's like soft clay; I could press my thumb deep down and squash her if I wanted to. But men don't do that to women, sons don't do that to mothers. Even when we have the power.

"I just want you to know, baby," she said, her words thick, "that I love you so so so much. And I think this is good for you..."

You're not strong. You have no authority here, no authority left now.

"...to do. Maybe this will help, you know, sort out all the stuff that's wrong right now..."

You can't even say it.

"...and we can all learn from this. We can- " she gave a laugh, mingling with the hopelessness of a sob, "we can write a book about it, or you can. You can...you can write a book."

She stops, looking down. I can't tell if she wants me to answer or not.

"Okay."

I don't think I'll write a book.