to drive
ben whitmer
So she smiled and ran a finger around the rim of her beer glass, really with no device, only a little embarrassed. “I think I like it,” she said. She rubbed the back of her neck self consciously and smiled again. The air on my neck . . .”
“I like it too,” he said.
She leaned over the table, a baiting lift to her eyebrows. “I think you need to come out of the closet.”
(I like the way my woman drives. She’s got a way of touching the gear stick, of caressing the gas pedal. She never ever wrecks.)
He sipped casually at his beer. “Excuse me?”
“You won’t go all the way and find a boy, so you made me look like one.”
He laughed, then stopped as he saw the almost hurt look one her face. “You don’t look like a boy.”
She shrugged and rearranged her sweatshirt across her shoulders. “I feel different.”
(She learned to drive from her father. He works for GM and has a new truck every year. A pistol under the seat, just to let you know he knows how to drive.)
The waitress brought the next round and replaced the ashtray. “There’s no need for that,” he said to the waitress. She caught his eye for a second, nodded, took the clean ashtray back and left him the dirty one.
After the waitress moved away from their table, she reached over and smacked his hand. “You always have to flirt,” she said.
He tipped his bottle and poured his glass full. “I wasn’t really flirting.”
“Of course you were.” She drained half of her beer, from the bottle. “I flirt too. It’s alright to flirt.”
He hunched down and grinned at her over the cheap red candle holders.
She stood abruptly. “I’m going to the restroom to look at it.” She strutted past the bar and disappeared into the women’s door.
(I was born to a man who knew how to drive. He drove quickly away from my mother at her behest. The man she took after him knew how to drive, pulling around town after town, a beer upright between his legs.)
“Want another?” the waitress asked, poised over the table.
“Sure,” he said. He killed off the last of the beer in front of him and watched the restroom doors.
She swung out of the restroom and paced carefully back to her seat. “I look like a lesbian,” She said.
(Even my mother, after every traded blow, loaded me up and took off in a car. She knew how to drive, slapping at the wheel, spraying the gear shift with spittle, careening down the interstate and bleeding from her freshest wound, ten or twelve hours to her mother’s. Only to return with a steadfast grip on the wheel. One straight arrow sure shot.)
He ran his hand over the back and sides of her head, where it had been shaved. “You look beautiful.”
The waitress returned and sat the beers down. He said nothing to her. She left.
Her voice started to crack. “I feel ugly,” she said. Her chin trembled.
He slid his fingers over her cheek. “You’re fine.”
She jerked her face away. “You did this.”
“How did I do it,” he said, doing his best not to sound amused.
She started to cry a little. “You said you liked this haircut.”
“I do,” he said. “But I didn’t make you get it.”
“You knew I would.” She shook her head violently. “You just don’t want other men to look at me.”
He started to laugh helplessly. She peered at him through her fingers, hurt and angry. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m not worried about men looking at your hair.”
(I have a scar that begins behind my right ear and winds all the way down to my adam’s apple. One of my vocal cords has been ruined, keeping n.y voice harsh and low. When people who know me see me driving in my Escort, carefully around corners, terrified in traffic, they always laugh. I hate to disappoint them so obviously.)
She giggled a little and looked surprised at having done so. The giggle increased to a full fledged laugh. She wiped her tears off on her shirt sleeve. He picked up her hand and kissed it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still giggling.
He tipped his glass and found it empty. “For?”
“Overreacting.”
“I’m not pressed.” He waved the waitress over and ordered two more beers.
She stood. “I’m gonna go look at it again. I think I’ll like it better this time.”
“I hope you do.”
She swatted him on the arm on her way past. “Smart ass.”
Her strut was gone and she held her arms at her sides, picking her way through the drunks.
A bearded man in a flannel work shirt who looked like he’d never done any real work in his life, glanced her up and down. He started at her ankles and moved to her ass, seeming to like what he saw. When he was finished there, he moved across her torso and then to her face. He shook his head slightly and grinned ruefully, then he returned to his beer.
(I like the way my woman drives. We rip down the roads, her shifting lanes any time she simply wishes. Friends are always saying to me, “I saw you and your woman out driving yesterday. She’s a fucking maniac.” I nod and smile every time.)
