Getting Lost

My roommate’s sister Bethany sits on the couch this morning iglooed in heavy cotton blankets, white puffy cloud depictions scattered about. She palms a coffee cup, the only mug in the house. The broke off handle long since buried deep in the junk drawer to one day Gorilla Glue back on along with all the other things we must fix in our lives. I wonder if she scalded skin like cheap cups do containing hot when they’re not properly isolated. 

She asks where I am going. I sit on the floor putting socks on, Running, I say. 

She asks if it will rain. Bethany is an extraordinarily tall woman with long slits for eyes who stare into some far off sea when she talks. Maybe she knows pain, I think, citing the slatterns dockside her eyelids, man bruises under her eyes. 

It will pour, I say, not following weather patterns for years but playing small time god feels good. 

Supposed to help my friend move furniture, she says.

It will pour all day, I say.  

He borrowed a truck for the afternoon, she says, His name is Jade. Sound like a girl’s name to me but he’s cute. Short but cute. Mexican. Maybe she's more like a small child, I think, a bright cartoon Band Aid better again when the ugliness is covered in pretty, sharing thoughts openly without pretense, recourse, judgment. I want to understand body language to understand her. She continues, We are just friends though. I’m busy working day and night shifts at a call center for Capital One. The job is boring but haven't gotten fired yet. 

It will rain and rain and rain and rain, I say, It will rain all week. 
She studies me lacing tennis shoes; having lost sleep from her eyes, You...You seem...You okay? And glances at my chest. I look down. Long since finished my shoes and  holding my breast bone for how long? The skin rubbed red counter clockwise with my palm. Never understood heartache till that moment. 

I stand up slowly. Joke about singing Pledge of Allegiance and I tell her how her eyes are the color of backyard clay and her hair looks like sticks of brown crayons melted in the sun. It’s lovely, I say, the colors you possess. She’s flattered and forgets how I’ve exposed my weaknesses. 

Running past dilapidated houses seem to represent something. Many with: Beware of Dog, Do Not Trespass, No Solicitation, Do Not Enter, Private Property, Deliver Mail to Back Door, Doorbell Doesn’t Work, Knock Loudly. 

And then into the countryside, pass rows of cleared corn fields, littered thimble size farm houses out yonder, makeshift roadway and property line thickets, dead rabbit carcasses, leaves plastered to the ground, evergreens, nettles. I get lost.  

And then somewhere out into the distance, a dog hops a low bearing fence and runs full speed toward me. His teeth show. His muscles vibrate. This is all a matter of seconds, this accordion folding. I thought of this moment several times before waking from nightmares; rapidly folding space between two opposing objects.