“Sweet Water” by Ashley Murray
--page 6

         I take my time driving back.
         Instead of taking the straight-shot along the highway, I dip off the main road through a string of towns linked together by a handful of houses. Why is it I need to tell him, I wonder. I could turn around right now, disappear. Wait it out somewhere else until the deal on the house comes through.
         I could spend a few more days in a motel. I could go stay with my mother.
         The dirt road winds ahead of me as I think about this and keep driving. I listen to the radio for awhile but the music seems louder than normal. So I flick it off, let the car fill up with the quiet.
         At the edge of our driveway, his truck is in its usual spot. I park a few feet behind it and turn off the engine. Slowly pull the keys from the ignition and get out of the car.
         It seems wrong that everything is exactly as it was before.
         As always the stairs tip under me, giving a little as I step onto the wood. My metal wind chimes dance above my head, the long tubes clang against each other. But when I open the screen door, even though I’ve heard it a hundred times before, the sound of it startles me. Sweat prickles the skin under my nose as I grab the tiny gold door knob and stand frozen, unable to move.
         It takes a few more minutes of this before I finally knock.
         Inside--a rumbling, the echo of cans hitting the floor. A crash of some sort.
         Shit, I hear him say.
         Behind the door, his feet pound the hallway.Suddenly I know--am fully aware--how bad an idea this is. I cannot stay here one second longer than I have to. I want to tell him it’s done, whether I owe it to him or not. But nothing more. No waiting. Because if I wait--if I stay--I might keep staying. I might never go.
         Simply out of habit.
         So I will tell him it’s over. I will tell him it’s over and I will turn around and walk back to my car. I will get in, start the engine, and I will drive away. It doesn’t matter where to. As long as it’s not here.
         In front of me the door creaks. Time lengthens and draws itself out. And then it opens and he is in front of me. Boyish, with his smirk of a smile.
         He takes a swig of his beer and says nothing.
         His lips are cracked. They make me want to dip my finger in vaseline and smear it across his mouth. Like I used to. Back in those early summers when his mouth got burnt from working too long in the oil fields. I’d smooth it on before supper, suck it off.
         Right now I want very badly to kiss him.
         He sways a little, body slanted against the door frame, and rests his head against his wrist. He looks tired. Probably stayed up late watching TV and drinking whiskey. I wonder if he thought about me. How it was for him sleeping alone. If he had any idea what to do with so much space.
         Then I think about my house and what color of curtains would look nice on the kitchen window. How wonderful it would be to pick out a new bedspread.
         And about Mr. Myers and the mesquite trees. What he said about them. How their ingrown roots slice into the ground and hunt for drops of water. Reach down instead of up.
         I shut my eyes.
         It is brilliant all the colors I see. How they star out and knife into the black, outline Ray in reds and blues. It is so vivid the way the colors shift to greens and golds, paint leaves. The bark knots together and twists up, forms a tree.
         In my mind I am the tree. The locusts swarm me. They cry and leave their shells along my branches. My arms wooden and turn to roots. They fan out, searching as I suck the cracked earth for water.
         And at the bottom, below it all, is Ray.
         He comes into focus and the image dissolves. I look at his eyes, soft and mean.
         I ask myself the question I’ve asked myself countless times before.
         I love you, he says.
         Why can I not stop myself.
         A speck of his saliva flicks out under his teeth and onto my face but I don’t wipe it away.
         His face is the same as it’s always been. The same hard jaw, the black curls falling just under the ears. He could be nineteen again if I close my eyes hard enough.

         My dream. It always ends here.
         I guess it changes slightly. A little each time. Different places, people. But basically it stays the same.
         You’d think I could learn to control it--seeing that it is mine.
         But this dream. Even here inside it, I never do run away.

         So I open my eyes. Beneath him, I move my hips a little as he thrusts into me.
         I examine my upturned feet beside the underside of his--my crooked toes, the red nail polish chipped and splotchy.

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