Annie smears pink paint onto the apple of my cheek with her index finger, raising it up to my cheekbone and then dragging it down the side of my face. I try not to laugh at the cold tickling my skin, sitting on the roof of her station wagon in the middle of a country road, halfway between Wells and Omaha.
“We are delightfully in between,” she told me as she parked the car, unloading her camera equipment.
Now she repeats the process on the other side, dips her finger back into the paint, fills the hearts in. I don’t look away while she does it, opting instead to stare directly into her seaglass green eyes, which today are devoid of makeup. She looks tired because she is. She rejected my offer to get coffee on our way out of town; she drove with confidence. …
In retrospect, every night of August hurt,
starting somewhere in my quicksand
stomach, oh, dearie, stop struggling,
it’s the only way out, stop struggling, stop
telling yourself you’re not worth every
piece of china on his wall.
