In A Dress Walking Alone

Aura Martin

Cento from Always Happy Hour: Stories by Mary Miller

I’m in love with a boy who carves things into his arms with the sharp edges of beer cans. These are the best days, but still I do not write. He sits across from me and I watch him dig around in his box full of small tools. Tomorrow is Saturday and we’ll go to the river and drink beer and maybe catch more fish to put in the tank.

I don’t feel like going to the river. What good can come of it? His energy makes me nervous and dull, like I have nothing to say that might interest him, like I won’t be able to hold his attention for long. You never catch anything anyway.

Skeleton cars and underfed dogs. I hear thunder in the distance. I toss my bottle cap, which I’ve been clutching so tightly there’s a ring in the center of my palm, out the window and take the last beer from the refrigerator.

I watch him the same way he watches me–blankly, without interest. This is not my life. Nothing makes sense.

I get drunk and all I could think to ask is when I would die, if he could tell me when I’d die. He puts his arm around me and holds the camera up and takes picture after picture. I lie back and close my eyes.