Issue 216, Spring 2016
He gets back in the car, resting a plastic tray of nachos on his jeans. I smell the salt, the corn, the nacho cheese, its under-smell of plastic, the way his hair smells when he hasn’t washed it in a few days, gasoline.
For a second I forget I’m driving a car and I think I’m on an airplane, leaning back as it rises, and then I see the plane I’ve been following while taking everything in through my nostrils because I’m tired from not sleeping. His penis comes alive for me as a possibility in his pants, like a phone that might ring at any second.