Exposure Therapy

Luke didn't understand why people insisted on shaking hands. It was gross, and the number of people who don't wash them after using the toilet is astounding and horrific.

He looked at Greg's outstretched hand, thick and calloused and--was that ketchup under his nails?

"No thanks," Luke said, barely hiding his grimace. Greg didn't pull his hand back. It stayed there, suspended in the air, waiting for him.

"What?" Greg asked. Luke looked up and watched his brow fall. That usually meant confusion or disappointment.

A look he knew too well.

He sighed, gripping his hand lightly, hoping to keep some distance. He took a little bit of solace in knowing that the distance between atoms and the magnetic fields around them keep things from ever really touching each other.

Luke also knew that was gamified justification for the pressure Greg had returned. His skin crawled as they grasped hands, shook once, and released.

Greg, from Facebook Marketplace, wanted to buy his old skateboard. And coat his hand in stranger-sweat and whatever the fuck that was under his nails.

All for a measly twenty dollars.

"Thanks," Luke muttered, averting his eyes. He turned back to his car--a pristine 1996 Fiero--and hopped in, making sure not to touch anything with his wet, stranger covered hand.

Gross.

The door rattled the car and he leaned over awkwardly, popping open the glove box with his left hand. He kept his right elevated, suffering a gear shift in the ribs over touching the upholstery with Greg's gunk.

Coerced last week to a barbecue joint by his mom, he stuffed some wet naps in next to the hand sanitizer. He'd have to call her and make sure to thank her.

She had asked him why he was still like this even after she'd been paying for his therapist visits for the last six months. She'd be happy to know he got out of the house to sell something in a gas station parking lot.

Small steps.

He ripped open the wet nap and scrubbed his hand until it turned red, and scrubbed some more. When he was satisfied he squeezed some sanitizer into his hand and finally felt clean.

He sat back up in his chair, thankful to be using his right hand again. Clutch depressed, he started the car, jamming it into reverse.

The Fiero had a hard time getting into reverse. Something about his transmission, the mechanic said, but he didn't remember a lot of it. He made a lot of eye contact and the authority in his voice scared Luke.

It chunked into place, and he eased off the clutch and onto the gas before looking back.

A flash of metal and a greasy man's eyes jolting wide before he lurched in his seat. Luke's stomach flipped, panic rising like sea foam at high tide.

The cabin rattled, spilling his soda in the middle console. The low-impact crunch from the collision echoed in his head, pinging off the walls and spinning his vision.

He was trapped between crash pillars and the bumper of an old S10. No escape. He pulled out his phone, finding Dr. Vinio's office phone.

He almost hit call when Greg tapped on the window, leaving a greasy smudge.

"Hey man, you backed into me."

Yeah, no shit.

The cabin was sealed and he was clean. Luke peered out. Greg’s eyes pried, his beard wild, blocking the door like when his mom used to try to leave the house.

Luke didn't want to get out. He was too close. And on top of the insurance fight that was about to happen, he needed to get that smudge off the window.

Reluctantly, he rolled the window down. Greg from Facebook didn't hesitate to fill his car with his hot breath. It washed over his face, hot and wet and Luke almost crawled under the driver's seat.

"You hit my truck, man," he reiterated.

"Thanks. I was worried no one saw." The humid stink off his teeth peeled Luke's skin back.

Greg paused. "Can I get your insurance information?"

Luke rustled in his back pocket, fishing out his card. "Do you have something to write with?"

Greg leaned in closer, nearly sticking his head in. It took everything Luke had not to palm his face and push him out.

"No," he reached an arm in, attempting to grab it. "I'll just take a picture."

"No!" Luke yelled, embarrassment replacing his panic immediately. He took a deep breath out the side of his mouth, sucking in fresh air from the passenger seat and hoping none of it touched Greg's lungs.

“No. Just—can you please step back?” Luke shook his arms, frustrated, feeling small under Greg's presence.

Greg nodded and stepped back.

The door latch clicked and swung open, the world around them spinning out under a massive sky. He quickly hopped out, bouncing on his toes, shaking off whatever moisture Greg left on him.

"Here," Luke snapped a picture of both sides of his insurance card. "What's your number?"

He rattled it off, looking at Luke like he was wearing someone else's skin. Luke couldn't think of anything worse in the world than that.

He punched in the number and texted it over to him.

"There," he continued. "That should be good." Luke was taking small steps in place, and every eye around him was burning a hole in his back.

"You on drugs?" Greg asked, a smirk playing at his lips.

Luke shot him a look, waiting for him to move. He was still too close to his car. He had covered Luke in more bodily excretions than he had in over a year.

That quota was filled and his Dr. Vinio was not going to like it.

Greg still stood there, like he was waiting for something.

"What?" Luke asked. "Can I go?"

Greg huffed and turned, hopping back in his truck.

He hurried back into his car, veering from the smudge, and hopped in. Greg passed by his rear view and he sighed, relief washing over him. Not like a shower, though.

He would need ten of them.

The Fiero's motor turned once again and he struggled to put it in reverse. It snapped into place, nerves vibrating, his house nearly screaming for him to return.

He eased off the clutch, pressing the gas slowly--

He lurched in his seat as his bumper crunched into the fender of a small gray Volkswagen.

The driver hadn’t gotten out yet. Maybe they were scared. Maybe they were dialing their own therapist. Luke didn’t want to know.

If he stayed here much longer, he’d start crying or cleaning again—probably both.

The driver hopped out of their car, stomping toward his smudged window. He wasn't opening the window or door again. Everything and everyone was dirty, and leaving the house only meant greasy people who didn't wash their hands and spit hovering in the air.

She knocked on his window, demanding attention. His gaze stayed locked on an energy drink ad. Three for four dollars.

Three for four dollars.

“Hey Siri,” Luke said. “Call Dr. Vinio’s office. And log an instance of exposure therapy.”