FICTION

Electric Circus

Alison Condie Jaenicke

n the afternoon before Franks challenge, four days before our big game, I spread out my Wonder Woman towel on the sand, then sit watching the horizon, trying to reel in a storm from out at sea. The sky blares blue, not one cloud to soften it. August days at the shore are like this, much too full of everything you wish for in the gray of winter. Lying on my belly, skin slathered with baby oil, I wear the bathing suit Ive worn all summera bright green crocheted bikini. Rainbow stripes arch over each breast; small holes line the bottoms edge. When I take it off at night, dots of tan stretch like a chain around my hips. A mans voice floats down to me: What are you doing here all alone? I open one eye and squint up into the sun spreading like a bright flower around his head, blinding me to his face. Alone? I wonder. The beach is packed, barely a yard between one towel and the next. I flip over and pull my knees to my chest. He sits on my towel in the place where my shins had been. I feel oily and naked. I say something, it doesnt matter what. He looks at me so long that I think Id better say something else. Well, my friends and I have been here all summer, working nights mostly, and they got tired of coming. To the beach, I mean. He turns his face up the coast and says, Yeah. Whats your name? I ask, wait. But he has disengaged. He doesnt look at me when he talks. Listen, I made a mistake. Your voice surprised me. I thought you were a woman, but now I see that youre a girl. He hops up and weaves through the clumps of beachgoers, begins jogging through the surf. Is eighteen still a girl? I wonder. This fall I will live in a dorm room, keep my own checking account, vote in my first election. I lie back down under the unrelenting sun. When I close my eyes, I see the blood of my eyelids. I see an image of my swim-team bathing suit from junior highred, white, and blue, stars and stripes for the Bicentennialsmooth and sleek over my straight torso, the stripes uncurved. I feel a pang for that suit, wonder whether I still have it somewhere and if it would still fit me. That evening, I pedal my bike to work. Cars in search of dinner jam Coastal Highway, horns bleating. Restaurant fumes and a waning sun ride the insistent sea air. By the time I reach Ginos, a sheen of sweat has formed beneath my polyester brown pants and red shirt. I lock my bike to a chain link fence surrounding the dumpsters then sit by the back door to replace my yellow flip-flops with white soda popsplattered

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lace-ups. When I step inside, a voice cuts through the sizzle of Gino Giants and french fries: Salad girl! Frank shouts. Chicken men! I shout back. Stuart and Frank lean over bubbling grease vats frying chicken. Hairnets trap their shoulder-length hair, form turtle shells atop their heads. Regina stands at the large double sink, her hands busy over a counter full of tomatoes. Beside her, pale green chunks of lettuce float in murky water. A rank, fetid smell lurks beneath bleach and ammonia, used at night to scrub the stainless steel sink and red tile floor. After punching my time card, I take up my place beside Regina. Been stocking up on lettuce, she reports, and I think the bars low on cucumbers, too. She looks up. Got some sun today, huh? Me and thousands of others. Regina grunts. I think Ive had enough of that for this summer. Heyare you working till three again tonight? I dont like you riding that bike home in the middle of the night. Well, Mother Hen, what do you want me to do about it? Call you to pick me up? Who knows where Ill be. If Im still out, I could swing by. No, Ill be all right. Frank will follow me home if it bothers you so much. Hes trusty. A glob of chicken fat splats in the lettuce water. Regina, tired but unfazed, plucks it out. Not a very good aim, are you, Frank? Oh, and youre better, are you, girl? Regina and I look at each other. We started playing basketball together nine years ago, have played for exactly half our lives. You dont know who youre talking to, Regina says. Oh, I forgot I was in the presence of my little jock-ettes. Frank crinkles his eyes, gives us a fake smile. Girls get tall and they think they can play hoops. I whip a garbanzo bean across the room, and it bounces off his forehead. Reginas hits Stuart between the shoulder blades. Hey, dont get me involved in this, gripes Stuart. Stuart has turned his gray eyes on Regina, and some tide in me shifts, pulling. I want him to look at me. Oh, youre involved, mister, I say. Youre his friend, arent you? Stuart looks at Frank. Im your friend? Thats news to me. Youre either with me or youre against me, pal. Frank dangles chicken fat above Stuarts head. Let me reload, comrade, Stuart says. Then the garbanzo war explodes. When we can no longer step without smashing beans, Regina shouts, Enough! We win, Frank declares. Reginas face turns red as she stoops to sweep up the mess. Win? she spits back. This is no win. You want to see a win, you should get us out on the basketball court. Before I know it, Frank devises a plan to play two-on-two Friday afternoon down at the courts on 39th Street. He bounces around like hes a contestant on The Price Is

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Right, bubbling on: Well play you to ten by twos, he says. Hell, well even give you two points to start, you being girls and all. I try to toughen my voice, What are you going to give us when we win? When we win, well send you out for a case of Miller High Life. If you win, a case of whatever you want. Keep talking, Regina mutters. Talk is cheap. She doesnt pause in her sweeping or ask for help. I watch the boys return to their work, until my idleness becomes visible even to me, then I shake my head and turn to the lettuce. When her mother died four years ago, Regina stepped into the role of housekeeper and cook to her father and four brothers. The training serves her well in the fast-food world, where managers love her friendly efficiency, her whirling dervishness. They schedule her to work the register during our busiest times. Me they arent sure about, with my brooding eyes, my mouth that rarely smiles, my tendency to daydream, so they hide me in the back stocking the salad bar and give me night shifts at the counter. Regina plays basketball like she tends the counter at Ginos. She runs everywhere, her face flushed, her forehead wrinkled with worry. She cleans up other peoples messes. On the court, she earns most of her points rebounding others misses, making short shots under the basket. When a teammate lets an opponent dribble past, Regina steps up to take a charge. For three years, she was our high schools starting center, and I mostly sat the bench. I am tall, a freak among other girls, but Regina is taller. She keeps her shoulders hunched to shrink herself and wears Earth shoes, the sole thicker at the toe than the heel, as if that could reverse height. To me, Regina looks like a great blue heron, gawky but beautiful, and when she spreads her wings to take off down the court, you say, Ah theres her powerthats why shes built that way. Halfway through our senior year, Regina planted the seed about us living in Ocean City for the summer. She told me and Marie that her dad would give us his condo, just make us pay utilities. We laughed and gasped, patted each others backs. Entrenched in our parents homes, we saw months on our own at the beach as shimmery and untethered. When my parents said, Fine, I stared at them, couldnt believe how easy it would be to slip away. On the boardwalk with a February wind piercing our jeans, the ocean spitting at us, we applied at any restaurant that was open. No real restaurant wanted eighteen-year-olds without waitressing experience, but Ginos took all three of us at minimum wage. The night of Franks challenge, I ride my bike home through the dark, quiet streets to our apartment in Golden Gate Condominiums, a two-storied square perched on the bay side of the long, thin, barrier island. Maybe, like Regina, I should feel danger pressing in on me as I ride the streets alone at three a.m., but I dont. Instead, I feel the way the cool salt air snakes wisps of hair along my temples, how low and heavy the three-quarter moon sits in the sky, how the blue lighted swimming pool at the center

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of our apartments shines like an iridescent gem. I climb the wooden steps and slide open our screen door. Just inside, Marie sits up on the fold-out couch, her knees tenting the sheets. When I ask why shes up so late, she tells me how she heard a scratching at the screen earlier in the night, then a voice low like a dogs growl: Psst. Wake up, bitch. You best wake up. Im gonna mess you up. Marie rolled toward the door to see Stuarts girlfriend Stephanie, her face so close that Marie could smell her whiskey breath. I stare at Marie, confused. She was looking for you, Ava. She thought I was you laying here. I told her you werent home, and she said, Tell the bitch to stay away from Stuart. So Im telling you. Bitch. Marie giggles, and I sink onto the bed with her. The Bad Company poster on the paneled wall above us throws its dice, and I imagine the outcomesnake eyes. Stuart and I work together and thats it. You know that. Hey, I know. Stuarts not your type, anyway. The truth is that I like it when Stuart spreads his smile across me, gathering a net around the two of us. He holds it there just long enough, but when he looks away, the net disintegrates and all of our differences spill out. I havent dated much, but when I envision the boy of my dreams, he doesnt have Stuarts shaggy blond hair or his feather earring that flutters when he walks. Stuart has come to the beach to live with Stephanie, not for the summer like the rest of us, but indefinitely. I have been bound for college since I was born, but Stuarts trajectory is less clear, seems aimed into air charged with the threat of thunderstorm. Stephanie works in a Perdue chicken processing plant back on the mainland, and I sometimes imagine that Stuart fries the chickens she kills. Marie settles back down under the sheets. That party tomorrow night should be interesting. If Stephanie gives you any trouble, well back you up, she says. Be your Mod Squad. I dont offer to stay home from Stuarts birthday party. Even though I hang around the edges, wave away the bong when someone tries to pass it to me, listen more than talk, I still travel with the pack. The night of the party, I work from five to ten, and Marie and Regina wait for me at home. Marie drives us down Coastal Highway, all the way down to Division Street where Stuart and Stephanie live with two other guys in an old pea-green clapboard house. Above their front porch looms the highway bridge that brings cars and trucks onto the island from the flat Maryland farmland of the Chesapeake Bays Eastern Shore. The bridges streetlights and the all-night gas station next door illuminate their front yard. We weave our way through the yard full of parked cars, keeping a lookout for Stephanie, and arrive at the slushy ground around the keg. Frank is there, wearing his black Big Johnson Power Tools T-shirt and his white puka shell necklace. As I pump the tap, he drapes his arm across my shoulder and chatters about our upcoming game. I say, Keep talking, and he does. He says to everyone and no one, I feel sorry for these girls, up against me and Stuart. We gave them two

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points already, but even so, I dont know, it might be humiliating. Hey, Ava, we better give you four points. What ya say? I dont say anything, just let him pile it on. He changes tacks. I hear our little girls leaving us at the end of the summer, crossing over the river to turn into one of those snobby Virginia girls. You gonna forget all your redneck pals back here in Maryland? How could I forget a redneck like you, Frank? Ah, sweet as ever. He pinches my cheek. Im serious nowdont turn snob on me. I will never see Frank again after this summer, Im sure, and I already miss his easy banter. Stuart emerges from the crowd. As he heads toward us, a warm wave washes over me. Whats new at work, salad girl? You missed some excitement tonight, I say. A case of chocolate dessert cups is missing, and were both suspects. Frank guffaws. Stuart leans over and peers into my eyes. For a moment, I think hes going to kiss me, and I pull away, blinking in slow motion. His beery breath brushes my lips. Hmmm, he says, I can see it in your eyes. Youre my top suspect. He straightens up, laughing. Look at her, Regina. Cant even look me straight in the eye. Regina isnt paying attention to us, though. When she says, Uh, oh, I turn to see Stephanie illuminated up on the front porch, as if on stage. Her curly blonde hair is lit from behind, and with her face in shadow, she looks like Roger Daltry without The Who. At her shoulder, she holds Stuarts birthday cake. Glaring at him, she says in a low, flat voice, Heres your cake, you bastard. Happy fucking birthday. She shoves it like a shotput, and it arcs through the darkness, then splats on the car hood beside us, spraying icing across our midsections. Stuarts voice contains no surprise, only the same flat edginess as Stephanies. Thank you, Miss Drama Queen, he says, and I know then that this is not about me, that the two of them are bound up in their own electrical storm and Im just a passerby caught in it. He smiles, then tilts his head back for a long swig of beer. Everyone else freezes. Even the stereo and the rush of cars on the freeway seem muted. When Stephanie rushes toward me, I feel my arms flex at the ridiculous thought that she will punch me, start a fight. Instead, she grabs my wrist and tugs me toward the road, where she stops and wheels around, jabbing her lit cigarette toward my face. I know men, she says, then her cigarette is in her mouth, the tip burning orange as she drags. Unlike her, I dont know men, I realize, or women for that matter. They make you crazy, you know, because no matter what you do for them theyre out looking for more. She shakes her heada laugh and smoke snort out through her nose. She drops the cigarette and grinds it into the grass for a long time. As if she just remembers me, she looks up. Her hand suddenly rests on my shoulder. Its not you, hon. Us chicks got to stick together. Know what Im saying? Yeah, escapes from my cottony mouth. But I have no idea what it would mean for me to stick with her. What would bind us? I watch Stephanies back, a blue tube top and bare, tanned shoulders bobbing through the sea of people. She stops to

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lean on Stuart as if he is a life raft. They feed each other cake and icing from the car hood, smear a bit around each others mouth, then kiss and lick it off. When they walk away hand in hand, I see her rub his ass, stick her hand into the back pocket of his Levi cutoffs, the one not embossed with a white ring from his Skoal canister. Regina is left leaning over the mess, saving what she can and doling it out on paper towels to the crowd, wiping up the rest. Some mornings I wake up in our dark-paneled condo and find Regina and Marie still asleep, all sorts of people from home sprawled on the gold shag of the living room carpet, sleeping off their hangovers, and I cant stay. I get on my bike and ride. The morning after the party, I decide to bike partway on the boardwalk so that I can watch the morning sun scatter fragments across the ocean. The sand has been combed clean in the night by beach-roving machines. Seagrass shadows shimmy with the persistent breeze. A huge hotel perches on the boardwalk, a sprawling expanse of sun-bleached whiteness with long straight shadows along the roof lines. Wind lifts my hair like a caress, and I soften to it, absorbing the bump-bump-bump of boards under my tires. The early air smells like saltwater and donuts, but soon the sun will burn a hole in the sky, and dead crabs and fish will wash ashore to send their stink along the breeze. When I reach a part of the boardwalk crammed with T-shirt shops and arcades, and the pedestrian crowd thickens, I turn and head west to Coastal Highway, which looks in the morning like an absurdly wide swath of asphalt for the few cars that travel it. Wires stretch above metelephone wires, electrical wires, wires with traffic lights swaying suspendeda long Jacobs Ladder lining the Delmarva peninsula end to end, straining to skip the water to Cape May in the north and Assateague in the south. When I see the rough limestone and stained glass of Our Lady by the Sea, I swerve to the side door, hop off my bike, and lean it against a wall. Its not even nine oclock, and already Im sweating. I crave the churchs cool darkness. The wooden door swoops open smoothly, heavy on its hinges. When I dip my thumb in the shallow stone basin of holy water and cross myself, the wet spot on my forehead makes me shiver. Slipping into a wooden pew, I lower and slide onto the cushioned kneeler. Moving to the beach for the summer meant a welcome end to my unbroken string of Sunday masses reaching back to age five. During June and July, I forgot church, but now the faint smell of incense floods me, as do the votive candles flickering near the back, the windows stained rich red and bluelike blood inside and outside our veins. Stuart floats into my mind. What I dont know about him is as limitless as the life beneath the seas surface. I know nothing of his family, his life beyond this summer and this place. Does he have sisters? Did his father ever take him fishing in the rivers and inlets around his home? Did his mother cook food he loved and was it different from my own mothers food? Would he ever live west of the Chesapeake? Does he dream of marrying Stephanie, having kids? I could ask the same questions about Frank, who I count as a friend because we fix food together, toss words back and forth as we work, float in the same warm sea of drunkenness when we arent working. I dont ask them

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about their lives beyond this summer and they dont ask me. We are in this summer, and that is all. Suddenly I want a rosary to hold onto like a rope, but the only one I havea gift for my confirmation six years ago, with pearly aqua beadsis tucked away in a drawer at my parents house back in Bowie. I said the rosary on it only a few times. The Our Father beads always bored me, but once I reached the long string of Hail Mary beads, my heartbeat quickened. I look up to the right of the altar and see a white statue of Mary, robe rippling around her, palms face out at her side, so peaceful. I whisper the prayer: Hail Mary, full of grace I want to ask her if its a sin to swim naked at night. To drink so much beer that it feels good to dance with strange boys at the Electric Circus, the heavy beat vibrating the floor, its squares of colored lights flashing. To want Stuart without really wanting him. But I know the answer. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. I skim over that part. Im not ready to think about wombs. Reginas older brothers urged her to go on the pill before she moved here this summer, and we three girls laughed, but now I dont knowmaybe they were right. Regina and Marie dont know what theyll do next with their livestheyll go home and figure it out. No college, but theyre going somewhere, and neither is the sort to have a baby anytime soon. I finish the prayer: Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. On Thursday night, Frank struts around Ginos crowing about how hell win the next day: a driving lay-up here, a turnaround jump shot there. He changes our starting score for the final time, to 8-0. I tell him we dont need his benevolence, but I accept it uneasily. On Friday afternoon at three, the hottest time of day, we avoid the sun by standing in the mushroom-shaped shadow of a water tower near the courts. We shoot lazy practice shots as if we arent about to compete. Ten minutes of this, then we shoot from the free-throw line to see who will get the ball first. Franks shot hits the back of the rim and bounds right to me. Regina nods and I step up to the line, bounce the ball five times, then release a shot that rattles around but finally drops through the chain net. A silent whoop bursts in my mind and I hold back a smile. Regina calls me over to the sidelines and we bend our heads together in a minihuddle. How do you want to play it? she asks. Ill try to get it to you down low. You post up on whoever takes you. Youve got the height on both of themyou put it in. Frank calls us, Any day now, ladies. I grab the ball and am stepping out of bounds when Regina says, No, let me take it out. Frank guards me. Across the court from Regina, I make a V-cut to fake Frank, sprint toward her, find the ball in my hands near the top corner of the key, pivot, take three quick dribbles to bypass Stuart. I am open and Regina is not posting up and before I know it, the ball is arching and falling through the net and, simple as that, the game is over, 10-0. Ive made the winning shot. The ball bounces and bounces and sputters

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out against the chain link fence. Stuart retrieves it, passes it to me. Good shot. Make it, take it? Regina cant stop smiling. Games over, Stuart. She puts her arm around my waist. Well, boys, well take our case of Pink Champale anytime before sundown. No way Im buying that shit, Frank complains. Stuart looks confused. Once Frank explains his deal, Stuart bursts. You got me down here for this? He grabs his wallet and keys from the sideline and storms off. On the deck outside our apartment, Regina and I sit on aluminum lawn chairs webbed yellow and green. A bucket of ice between us holds a six-pack of Pink Champale. From the sidewalk below, Mr. Meeks the manager sends up his customary glare of disapproval as he walks his Scottie dog. Regina waves. The green indoor-outdoor carpeting tickles my bare feet, and I prop my legs up on the railing and sip my second bottle of Champale through a straw. Marie has gone out with the Ginos crowd, but our case keeps us put. Its nice to be someplace quiet for one night, floating in the darkness above the glowing pool. Did you plan that today, me taking the shot? I ask Regina. Plan? Plans are a place to start, but reaction is more important. Circumstances change. Knowing when to do what and doing it without hesitationthats what basketballs all about. I knew youd make it. I didnt know Id make it. Plus, you would have made it, too. Listen to what youre saying. How can you know Id make an undefended lay-up and not know you would? My head feels wrapped in cotton candy, and the question takes a while to burrow through. You always get it somehow. I never do. I pause to think about shots Ive made, shots Ive missed. Well, you cant make shots from the bench, I guess. Reginas questions have been gentle, but now she turns angry: You know why coach couldnt put you in? You never wanted to take the shot. You think I made every shot? You cant be so damn careful with the ball, afraid to let it go. You cant wait for someone to give you the go-ahead. Regina looks at me like shes loosed a bobcat kept hidden for years. I know, I say quietly. Reginas hardness falls away. Hey, listen, you made your shot today, you won the game for us, not to mention a weeks worth of drinks. Tonight, enjoy. She raises her bottle in toast. Long after midnight, still awake and wired, we go looking for Marie at a party and find the party out on the beachfour guys and six girls, with a big thermos of grain punch. They pass it around and drink from the spout near the bottom, leaning their heads back and up toward the black sky. Regina and I join in. They are working up their courage to swim naked in the dark ocean. We stand in the fringe of surf and let it lick our ankles. Joking, daring, we bide our time, then something among us shifts, and we move in unison to strip and enter the water. Its as if we know we have to keep up with

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each other, that if one of us falls behind, the movement will halt. Once I make it past the breakers, I stand with the heavy ocean pulling at my rib cage. Then I lift my feet and float, all but toes and head submerged, then flip my lower body like a mermaid. Clouds cushion the sky. Now and then, the moon escapes, emerges lopsided, almost full, turns the ocean into an expanse of green-black ice. In dark moments when the moon hides, I can see bright bits of phosphorescence bobbing in the surf. I am drunk and floating with the fragments of light, lost in them, until Frank swims up to me. Hows my hotshot? Until the moment he speaks, I havent noticed how my untanned breasts collect moonlight. His presence unnerves me, and I immerse myself up to my neck. His wet hair hangs like electric eels nipping his shoulders. My chin rests on the water top. Doin good. Drunk, though. Thats how I like my womendrunk and naked. From behind me, Stuart chimes in, Yeah, me too. I twirl in watery slow motion. Something brushes my hipa fish? a hand? Stuart is close enough to reach me. My blood races, and I try to breathe deep. Stephanie, wheres Stephanie? We were supposed to stick together. Suddenly, I know I need to get out and I am fighting the undertow, stepping big in the sucking water, arms waving for balance. Then Stuart has my elbow. Steady, he says, let me help. On firm sand, I spot my clothes, start pulling on my shirt, which sticks to my gritty, wet skin. I try the shorts, get tangled, fall on my knees, pull, pull again, but theyre twisted and sandy and damp. Stuart towers above me, holding his shorts in front of himself, looking like the Greek god of the sea or something, hair dripping saltwater on his tanned chest. My clothes are on now, clinging. I look up and down the beach. Which way? I say. Depends on where you want to go, he says slyly. His dimples glisten. Back, I say. Do you really? Im fighting the fog in my brain. Where is everyone? Stephanie, I say, aloud this time. He sits beside me. Close to my ear, he whispers, Shh. I am falling back slowly into the sand and this thing presses against me. Stuart moans and takes my hand, saying, Just hold it. Just hold it for me. I am jolted. Zap. Awake. There it is. Against me. Shoving and writhing, a snake, a rod, a thing closer than Ive ever seen it, felt it. Words build up in my head like air in a balloonno, no, please I dont want it I dont want it put it back put the snake back in the canuntil my head will burst if I dont say what I have to say which is, Get it away. Now. In a rush, Stuarts mystery flies away. Its only his body now, clammy but hot, his hands like handcuffs around my wrists. What I need is a big piece of driftwood. No, I need to be Wonder Woman, need X-ray vision, superhuman strength, because just me, I cant get him to stop. I feel a thud bump through his body, and I look up to see Regina kicking him, shouting, You dumb fuck, you fuckwad, then hes rolling away, scurrying on all fours like a ghost crab, then hes up, grabbing clothes, running. Yeah, you better run, you

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fucker, Regina yells after him. Meanwhile, shes pulling me up, Come on, come on, and we are stumbling through the sand back toward the dunes and her car. My bra is in her hand. I found this up the beach, she says and tosses it to me. Thank God you were here, I say. Where did everyone go? She looks at me, angry. That was too damn close, Ava. The clouds thicken overnight. Haze and fog hunker down on the island, shield the sun. My head thuds as I pack a bottle of water, a peanut butter sandwich, and a banana in my white woven handlebar basket. Sand blown onto the asphalts edge scrunches under my tires as I ride away from our apartment. The land, flat most everywhere, rises at the canal, and when I stand to bear down on the pedals, the handlebars squeak rhythmically from my pulling. The body of my sky-blue bike shimmers like the inside of an oyster shell. My parents gave me the bike for my tenth birthday, and for the first few years, I would scrub away the rust spots with S.O.S. pads. After this summer of salt air and neglect, the fenders and handlebars show as much rust as chrome. I pedal north about six miles, pass over the Mason-Dixon line for the first time this summer. Up through the Delaware State Seashore, where low scrub clenches a thin strip of sand. The left side of the road meets a wriggle of grassy shoreline and serene Assawoman Bay. On the other side of the road, over the dunes, the muscular ocean pounds its fists incessantly. I ride through cool wet air, keeping my mind trained on the flatness and my legs circling again and again, until after ten miles, the road rises and lifts at the Indian River Inlet, where rushing waters meet. Here is where I stop and get off. One summer years ago my father was fishing here when a school of bluefish began running. He strung them up on a long metal chain as fast as he could reel them in. I remember him, in his ball cap and three-day beard, standing in the backyard of our rented beach cottage north of the inlet, brown pine needles the perfect backdrop for the silver dangling from his hand, a feast for our extended family chattering inside. I ride as far as the inlet, but do not cross the bridge. I stand straddling my bike, watching fishing boats come and go. I look down at my feet in flip-flops. I own my fathers long toes, the ones he claims gave him speed on the football field. I own my mothers long, thin legs, wiry but strong, easily tanned, good for running and attracting men. I will wear no more basketball uniforms or swim-team suits. I tell myself: day and night, waking and sleeping, your body is with you. Yours and not yours, carrying on, changing. Yesterday the sky stretched its pregnant blue belly above my head so taut I felt I would suffocate under its sameness. Like the sky, my skin was pulled tight by the suns heat. Now, my skin, T-shirt, and hair are moist as the air. Above me spreads a crazy quilt of clouds and sky: blue slivers slice the gray batting, and plum-gray puffs break away. I am tired from staying in one place. I take a swig of water, then put the bottle back in the basket. Turning south, I pedal fast until I can no longer feel the ground, until it feels like I will rise and fly.

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