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Image by Walker.Carpenter and used under the terms of a Creative Commons license.

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She invites me in to the cliché looking white farmhouse. It is old and the side panels are stained with long drags of brown dust. The white paint is peeling in places and some panels have already fallen to the ground. The door nearly creaked off the hinge when I shut it. After passing through a small green hallway with orange shag, I sit at a yellow table in the daisy-wallpapered kitchen and wait.

I sit at the table and notice how wonderful air conditioning is at a time like this. I notice, because she doesn’t have any. She goes to the fridge and pours me out some lemonade to enjoy while she throws together some bologna sandwiches. I'd prefer water but I don't say anything because I don't want to make a scene.

The liquid feels good going down my throat even though it stings and coagulates into a sticky mess. She is standing by the fridge and I can’t help but notice the way the curvature of her body makes me feel. I hadn’t really noticed on the ride, being perched up in front, but she is actually quite pretty. She looks about my age and her light blond hair is kind of blowing in the fridge door, giving it a B-movie effect. She has one of those not so unique, pretty faces. Her eyes are a generic shade of blue, as if they hadn't really seen much worth seeing at this point in her life; but the thin, almost squinting shape of them intrigues me. I walk over to stand next to her and absorb the fleeting cool.

She asks me what my name is and seems genuinely interested. She doesn't ask anything else about my appearance and I like that about her.

We make small talk for a couple of minutes until the fridge stops emitting cool air. Her name is Maggy and she lives here with her brother who works at the bus station.

She grabs my arm and runs her fingers down it as if she is trying to figure out just who I am through the sweat soaking my shirt. She leans into my face, intently examining my skin. Her breath is sweet, but with staleness to it. I can feel some sort of tension in the air like I had just killed her cat by accident.

She kisses me forcefully on the mouth. She doesn't use tongue and I like that about her too. I don’t stop it, because I really don't want to. We push up against the old refrigerator until it starts making a whirring noise and she moves me backwards towards the table. She removes my shirt over my head and we commence this gauche make-out session on her puke colored kitchen table.

Beyond the whirring, I hear the noise from the radio in the back of my head, resting like a dull pain.

Congratulations on winning those tickets, hopefully you can use them. The group cut out on their last three shows and the rumor mill is swirling. Some reports have even said the band has lost its front man, they say he hasn't been seen for about a week now. Management is denying it, but they're a bunch of cocksuckers...

She starts running her hands over my stomach, rolling her fingers across the washboard of my ribcage. She takes off her own shirt and then kisses my neck and I undo her bra strap because I know how to do that. I feel absolutely nothing.

PSAs never made hitching sound like this.

The whole time I can't help but think about the past several days. Not the bus ride, but the days before that. I think about those days because it is difficult to remember much. My memory is hazy and all I can picture is bodies with blurred out faces reciting the lines to the script of my life.

I think about the way my girlfriend, who I might have loved, broke up with me because I am "emotionally unavailable." Her words ring in my ears but I cannot see or feel her face. She is a generic naked body with a cubed-out face, yelling at me. Telling me how to feel in order to be normal.

I think about the men in black suits marching in straight columns. I think about the endlessness of work and rhetoric and I cannot remember the meaning behind the madness. I remember the hours spent enduring the tediousness of labor. It turns everything inside out. I remember love turning into something ugly. I remember falling into despair.

And I think about the anger. The violence and hatred and uncontrollable urges brought on the pressure inside of my head. I see thousands of faceless bodies staring and I cannot control myself. I see myself, but I am boiling over. I see the vagueness taking me over.

These memories float through my brain like a vodka-induced fever dream. Nothing seems quite relevant, yet everything fits into place. The faceless bodies continue to swirl, to live and breathe, around me until one of them is on top of me.

We are fucking. The girl's body. But on top of it, I see her face.

She broke up with me on the hottest day of the summer on the sidewalk outside of my apartment. I don't remember what she said but I remember walking away because the concrete soaked in all of the heat and shot it back up at me. And the smell of the city mixed with the heat gave me a nauseating feeling in my stomach.

Another, more airy, feeling fills my stomach and my own physical exhaustion brings me back to reality.

She is moaning in a very generic way reminiscent of a porno from the 1970s. She says something, but I block out her voice until it is nothing but a vague beacon on the periphery of existence.

My face and chest are sweaty and I want to stop now.


After finishing, we lay sweaty and heaving on the kitchen floor. I haven’t been with a woman since the day before my ex-girlfriend broke up with me in the city, and it felt right because it didn't really feel like anything at all.

The roof is shaking over our heads. The sky is creeping in. The stars are out.

I move over to the counter and grab the sandwich she made for me. It tastes like salted rubber. It is probably around six and I still have no way of getting back to the bus station. I ask her what she thinks I should do.

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