Brad's Confession in the Ditch

It wasn’t until I noticed the moon was the color of the Cheeto dust under my fingernails that you said you would lick off but then didn’t and I felt weird because I thought it was hot and funny and you just thought it was funny but I guess that’s because you’re a goddess and I’m a child but anyway it was that color and it wasn’t until then that I remembered intently the flower I picked for you at the lake and how you didn’t want your hair to get wet but then you put the flower in your hair and dropped part of it and then I dropped you and we laughed about it later but you were mad at first and I felt like absolute shit but it wasn’t on purpose and it never will be and---

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m sorry that I said it was funny when your stepdad and his family were arguing and they were spitting out jokes I could never write but I had to say something and I never know how to express the distinction between “Look at those dudes,” funny and “I respect the culture,” funny and I know you said he wouldn’t get it but maybe I just can’t find the right words yet so I sound like a douche and I probably am.”

You shift in the passenger seat.

“And I don’t know why I can carry these memories but that I have to take pictures of everything else and I’m sorry I crashed the car but it was funny when we tried to drive it anyway and only made it worse and I’m sorry if we can’t go to the aquarium next weekend because I don’t know how much it will cost to get the car fixed and your mom trusted me to get us home safe and I wasn’t even drunk because I took a shower and drank gas station coffee but I don’t really remember how we got home so I might have been drunk and I might still be drunk and I’m sorry.”

“We had fun, Bradford.”

“I guess.”

I mean, I thought it was funny when your mom gave me my books and told me they were yours and I didn’t correct her because it reminded me of when the-one-who-yells would tell me that journaling was gay or would ask me how I could ever contribute something to the world if all I care about are dead people and letters dead people’s letters but I guess she just missed the snow and maybe every time she asked me how rich so-and-so’s parents were she was tearing at the edges of a bandage.

I also thought it was funny how we said we wouldn’t have sex in the shower but then we did and I didn’t even feel like I needed to take another shower afterwards and I don’t know how you felt about it afterwards because I didn’t really ask and I’m sorry I didn’t ask but we were laughing about it later so I think it’s okay.

I really liked the waterfall you took me to and even though it wasn’t a waterfall I think it looks cooler when it’s dry because it reminded me of Mars or at least of Arizona but I’ve only ever driven through Arizona so don’t let me make you think that I’ve travelled more than I have because when I talk about the places I’ve been I know that I can count them on my fingers but when I talk about the things I remember about the places I’ve been they’re like the peachy freckles on your chest in the lake.

And---

“I don’t think you look weird in the lacey thing that reminds me of Spider-Man 3. I’m sorry that you can’t smoke in front of your parents and I’m sorry that I can and I’m sorry your mom yells at you and that you have allergies and that I lost the cool sunglasses you stole from Target because I had to wear the manlier sunglasses to ride the four-wheeler and I’m sorry the fridge doesn’t work. Sometimes I daydream about going to the fridge guy and putting a cigarette out on his business card and telling him he’ll hear from my lawyer but then I’d have to get a lawyer and I don’t really want to do all that.”

            “Bradford…”

“I’m going to ask for a replacement on Tuesday and also I don’t think you noticed but our trash still hasn’t been properly picked up so why do I care about letters?”

Why did I change sunglasses? The question takes shape in front of me and fills the black outside the cracked windshield.

“Bradford,” you whisper into the stale air. “Do you think it’s funny when we make fun of people for doing the same things we do but really for being weird and shameful about it?”

You pause, grazing your bottom teeth with a chipped acrylic thumbnail. The artificial whiteness clashes boldly with the coffee-stained birchwood between and behind your lips. The air is still stale and now I notice it but for real and in the way that makes me want to turn the A/C on and so I do but then you turn your vent aside and now my face feels like it’s losing a snowball fight and my chest feels like it did that one time I lost track of which bag was for peppers and which one for canned corn and held up the line trying to make sure I wouldn’t crush the peppers because I wanted to make stuffed peppers because my mom used to make those and I wanted to set out folded napkins and wash the table runner first and I love you very much and I want you to---

“Maybe it’s better to be ashamed.” 

You breathe this out heavily, and sit on your hands like you’re waiting for me to pat you on the head and begin the world’s smallest game of duck-duck-goose-goose because you want to feel chased again and I wore my legs out on the swing-set six months ago.

“Do you think it’s funny when they call me Brad? I really don’t like it.”

“I like it when you go by Brad. It suits you.”

So we sit for hours, breathing in our wishes and blowing at birthday candles we can’t see with the blindfold still on and I don’t think I’ve ever even actually played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey like I’m pretty sure it’s made up.