North

Justin and I sit in the car—This American Life is on—and float through a neighborhood like Collin’s neighborhood. Too-big houses, gardens, landscaped yards with hedges and fountains. An ocean-view. My heart clenches. We haven’t said a word.

His right hand rests on his thigh, veins bulging. Fingers swollen. I move my hand through the car-air and place it on his.

“Where were you,” Justin says. My hand jumps and lands, now on his thigh.

“Can we get some fresh air.” I roll down my window.

“You farted.”

“No.” Maybe he was making a joke? I try to laugh—a raspy burst. Harsh.

He jerks his leg away.

“I’m sorry,” I say. We’re on the highway, flying north. Where are we going? “Do you like the roses?”

“No.” He is smiling now. He slips his hand between my thighs. My thigh-vein throbs. I feel like I’ve just cried, or orgasmed.

I grab the rose-bunch, prick my palm. Toss it out the window, onto 101.

Justin laughs. Trees retreat behind us, to the dim blue horizon. The highway rises and turns, hugs the ocean, the water sun-gold-huge. The moon floats like a ghost—hangs over the glowing ocean like a translucent insect on a bright stem, eating the stem away.

“Where we going?”

Want surges through my crotch like water out of a hose-tear. My legs tingle.

The sky to the east darkens, a clear, bright navy. The air cools. West, over the ocean, a hundred black seagulls swoop and dip in the gold-blue-huge. “Where are we going, Justin?”