Problems by Jade Sharma

with a tarp. We heaped the leaves onto the tarp, and then Peter, his father, and Jake lifted the tarp from the sides and dumped the leaves in the corner. What the fuck was the point of this? Why weren’t we throwing them away? I wanted to ask, but then I didn’t really care either. We spent allmorning putting a bunch of leaves into a corner of a yard where they were going to get spread all over the place again. Whatever. Doing stuff was dumb.
    Sue said, “They said it was going to rain, but it looks clear.” She gave me a gracious smile.
    â€œSo, kids,” Peter’s dad said, “I want you to know when the economy gets bad or if you ever need to, you’re all welcome to come back and live here. We can grow our own food, see.” He pointed to some ground. “That’s where I grow vegetables . . . and you know, we could just all live here.”
    My eyes got wet. I wanted to burst into tears imagining how he must have thought about this and was naive and sweet enough to think of all of us living here like this forever. Ignoring, of course, the weird paranoia about society crumbling.
    â€œDad, I don’t think it’s going to get that bad,” Jake said, looking slightly pained. And everyone kind of laughed, but I didn’t, because a part of me did want to move there and grow our own food and get a dog and have dinner at the table every night and sit cross-legged on the floor and listen to them sing songs.
    We headed into the house. I sat down at the kitchen table while Peter’s mother scrambled eggs. I was ready to stuff my face again. Peter nudged my arm, and I went to the enclosed porch with him. We sat on the couch.
    â€œI love you,” he said in my ear.
    â€œYeah, I love you too.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œI don’t know . . . wasn’t really into raking leaves.” There was a pause, and then I said, “Whatever, it was fine. I’m tired.” I said it as a way of getting out of the whole thing.
    â€œYou didn’t have to.”
    All of the sudden, he looked good to me. So clean. So wholesome, with his big smile and flannel and dark jeans. The fire wasgoing, and for the first time since I’d gotten there, I actually felt warm. I liked it there. “What do you want to do?” he asked me, putting his arm around my shoulders. He smelled good.
    â€œI want to check out some thrift stores,” I said.
    â€œI’ll ask Grace and Mom if they know any.” He smiled and walked back toward the kitchen. I leaned my head back against the cold boarded-over window. Sometimes I felt this horrible ache, like I already knew whatever was happening would become a memory I would think of and cry about after Peter left me. A premature nostalgia, like when you took a picture and imagined what it was going to be like one day to look at it and remember how happy you had been. A part of me was always aware of how painful it would feel after the happiness wore off. So I was never really happy, like, ever.
    We all got into the car to drive to Burlington. Jake drove. Sue sat in the passenger seat playing with the radio, and Peter and I were in the backseat with Grace. My head on his shoulder.
    â€œAre you excited about the thrift shop?” he whispered into my ear, in the same tone he used when we were fucking and he’d say, “Yeah, you like that big cock deep inside your pussy?”
    â€œYeah, I can’t wait.” I wanted to somehow convey how good I felt about him, but I didn’t know how. If I took him aside and tried to express something deep, he would think I was trying to start some heavy fight. You couldn’t say to a man, “I really need to talk to you.” No man on Earth has ever wanted to talk.
    The consignment store was in a little crappy house. Peter bought two shirts that I picked out for him for two dollars each. It was the best situation for us: I got whatever I wanted, and he got to pay