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The Boy

Elizabeth Broadbent

    We have dreamed him to life. He drives a fuck-me-red Corvette, perhaps a Stingray, and no cop will ever touch him, no Highway Patrol ever stop him. That blue-eyed boy, he’s blondely beautiful and tanned to brown. A Coca-Cola leans between his long, slim thighs; a Marlboro dangles from his pouted lips. His biceps make promises. He wears aviators; a slick, shiny-buttoned shirt; and nothing but Levis will do. He flies west, south, north, east, wherever a highway burns a straight black streak to your door. His radio blares Elvis. His radio blares Springsteen. His radio blares Aerosmith or Metallica or Detroit Rock City. He has cheekbones. His chin could miter corners. His passenger seat is empty.

    He will not park. He will scream to a smoking stop. But he will ring your doorbell like a gentleman.

    And you will be gone.

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