124 The Meadow “I don’t feel it.” A flush claws her throat. Scoot to catch up—she moves quick and clean. Behind me, screams turn real. “You here now? You work early show?” “I have transactions.” “I paid a seat, not corridor rate. Come sit down.” Soon as said, my mouth tastes wrong. Never did—never could—build invitations women might take kindly. Never learned from rejection how to adjust. “Then what?” Catch the tang on her breath. “We share? Go walking? Sit in the hills, watch sand in all directions? Bring each other water in dry times? Nurture ourselves like two arms of a helix? You don’t want that. Nor do I. Watch the picture.” “I come here to forget all that.” “I thought it was the hot water.” Can’t leave till I’m sure she’s gone. Wait by the curtain, one eye on the hall, one on the flashing lights. Blood froze when this movie came out—think about it: small-town setting, regular kids, modest local hero. People would have seen their town, their transactions. Drops you cold that your town could be the target. No surprise no one watches these movies now. The empty seats give the whole story. I’ve started not to see that thin lip of sand on my window, the brutal storms, the careful division of water through each week. The fire precautions we undertake with diligence and keen timing. Soon, I’ll only be here for the romcoms. She’s gone. So’s the kid from the paybox—he already knows the next show will play empty. Streets bristle with sand—in doorways, on the hoods of parked cars. In the suburbs it scratches out fallen blossom, makes landscapes against tree stumps. Blossom reacts on fickle spring rain; sand wads it over. We’re proud of this, as everything else. We don’t want our fields green. Everywhere, our eyes risk harmful light. By day the sky, and at night neon blinds me. Even by night, red hangs in the sky, spicy lilac ahead of black space. Atmospheric black,
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