hand as we climb and feeling adrenaline shoot into my gut as I remember that one way or another, I’m getting an answer tonight.
After we crest the hill, Mike stops and looks around at his feet. He plops down on top of a large rock.
The entire city is spread out before us, twinkling in the darkness as if reflecting the starry sky above. The air feels fresher and clearer up here, and I can smell creosote bushes, a faint aroma longing to feel moisture again. It’s been forever since it rained.
“Wow,” I go, a little breathlessly. From up here, at night, Phoenix is sprawled out like a
veduta
(
a representative rendering of a city;
thanks, Mr. Hilmer!), all murk and twinkles but with enough landmarks to assure me I am still, essentially, home. Instantly, I compose a rough sketch of this landscape in my head.
Mike pries open his ice cream. I sit down beside him on the boulder and open my own carton. Mike hands me a plastic spoon, which I completely failed to (a) notice or (b) think about when we were at the store. Genius.
“Thanks,” I say. “This is beautiful.”
“Yeah? I was hoping you’d like it. You said you were doing a lot of landscapes lately, right?”
Oh, my.
I clear my throat. “Um. Yeah. I am. Thanks.”
I dig into my coffee-fudge ice cream and take in a heaping spoonful. As soon as I swallow, I say, “Mm. I don’t know if I can finish this. I may go into a coma. Then, death.”
“But sweet, creamy death.”
I laugh and jam my spoon into the softening ice cream. We fall silent again, looking out over the city. I’m not sure if I can see my house from here or not; it’s definitely in our line of sight but too far away to pinpoint. My mom’s out there somewhere, checking the clock, waiting for me to bring my boyfr—
No. I can’t say it; I can’t even think it.
I churn nervously through half of my pint. Fudge chunks course through my digestive tract and seek my thighs. I stick the spoon into the remaining ice cream and set it down beside me. I wipe my hands on my shorts, fold my arms on top of my knees, and sort of watch him out of the corner of my eye, pretending to not do exactly that.
And I decide it’s time.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Mike’s scraping the bottom of his container. Skinny bastard. Ever notice how much thin guys can eat?
So
not fair.
He licks off the last of the ice cream from his spoon before answering, “Sure.”
“Promise you won’t get mad?”
“Nope.”
Despite my dry mouth and clenching gut, I still have to laugh. Then I take The Deep Breath.
“Um. Is this a date?”
Mike puts his spoon into the empty pint and sets it down. “Do you want it to be?”
“I was kinda hoping for an answer, not a question.” Whoa, hello, assertiveness! How lovely to make your acquaintance.
“I’m pretty sure it is.”
My stomach gives an anxious twist. “Pretty sure?”
“It’s just that …” Mike seems to weigh his words before scooting around to face me. “I haven’t exactly been dating for a while,” he goes. “And I’m not sure that I know exactly … how?”
He shakes his head. I can see his long bangs waving, black strands against a violet sky.
“That’s not it,” he says. “It’s just that I’m kind of coming from a bad place. Couple years ago. Girlfriend problems.”
Here’s the thing.
Should I care?
Do
I? I know without asking that, whoever she was, she called him Mikey. Bitch. This is his Girl Thing that came up at DC.
“She, um—you know, honestly, if we could talk about it some other time …”
“Yeah, no, that’s okay, that’s cool.” I pick my ice cream back up but only play with my spoon rather than taking another bite.
Mike sounds relieved. “Thanks. I kind of wanted to be alone for a while, you know?”
“Past tense?”
“Well,” Mike says, “if the past week or so is any indication … yes.”
The tightness in my stomach unwinds. Much,
much
better now. I try to think of something to say to follow
After we crest the hill, Mike stops and looks around at his feet. He plops down on top of a large rock.
The entire city is spread out before us, twinkling in the darkness as if reflecting the starry sky above. The air feels fresher and clearer up here, and I can smell creosote bushes, a faint aroma longing to feel moisture again. It’s been forever since it rained.
“Wow,” I go, a little breathlessly. From up here, at night, Phoenix is sprawled out like a
veduta
(
a representative rendering of a city;
thanks, Mr. Hilmer!), all murk and twinkles but with enough landmarks to assure me I am still, essentially, home. Instantly, I compose a rough sketch of this landscape in my head.
Mike pries open his ice cream. I sit down beside him on the boulder and open my own carton. Mike hands me a plastic spoon, which I completely failed to (a) notice or (b) think about when we were at the store. Genius.
“Thanks,” I say. “This is beautiful.”
“Yeah? I was hoping you’d like it. You said you were doing a lot of landscapes lately, right?”
Oh, my.
I clear my throat. “Um. Yeah. I am. Thanks.”
I dig into my coffee-fudge ice cream and take in a heaping spoonful. As soon as I swallow, I say, “Mm. I don’t know if I can finish this. I may go into a coma. Then, death.”
“But sweet, creamy death.”
I laugh and jam my spoon into the softening ice cream. We fall silent again, looking out over the city. I’m not sure if I can see my house from here or not; it’s definitely in our line of sight but too far away to pinpoint. My mom’s out there somewhere, checking the clock, waiting for me to bring my boyfr—
No. I can’t say it; I can’t even think it.
I churn nervously through half of my pint. Fudge chunks course through my digestive tract and seek my thighs. I stick the spoon into the remaining ice cream and set it down beside me. I wipe my hands on my shorts, fold my arms on top of my knees, and sort of watch him out of the corner of my eye, pretending to not do exactly that.
And I decide it’s time.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Mike’s scraping the bottom of his container. Skinny bastard. Ever notice how much thin guys can eat?
So
not fair.
He licks off the last of the ice cream from his spoon before answering, “Sure.”
“Promise you won’t get mad?”
“Nope.”
Despite my dry mouth and clenching gut, I still have to laugh. Then I take The Deep Breath.
“Um. Is this a date?”
Mike puts his spoon into the empty pint and sets it down. “Do you want it to be?”
“I was kinda hoping for an answer, not a question.” Whoa, hello, assertiveness! How lovely to make your acquaintance.
“I’m pretty sure it is.”
My stomach gives an anxious twist. “Pretty sure?”
“It’s just that …” Mike seems to weigh his words before scooting around to face me. “I haven’t exactly been dating for a while,” he goes. “And I’m not sure that I know exactly … how?”
He shakes his head. I can see his long bangs waving, black strands against a violet sky.
“That’s not it,” he says. “It’s just that I’m kind of coming from a bad place. Couple years ago. Girlfriend problems.”
Here’s the thing.
Should I care?
Do
I? I know without asking that, whoever she was, she called him Mikey. Bitch. This is his Girl Thing that came up at DC.
“She, um—you know, honestly, if we could talk about it some other time …”
“Yeah, no, that’s okay, that’s cool.” I pick my ice cream back up but only play with my spoon rather than taking another bite.
Mike sounds relieved. “Thanks. I kind of wanted to be alone for a while, you know?”
“Past tense?”
“Well,” Mike says, “if the past week or so is any indication … yes.”
The tightness in my stomach unwinds. Much,
much
better now. I try to think of something to say to follow
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