By Emi Gonzalez Perez

The can of cola is ice cold in my hands, contrasting the hot summer air that envelops me with a sheen of sweat. I’d found myself at a shabby gas station not far from my best friend Ollie’s house. The lingering promise to stay up with me, forgotten in favor of slipping into his dreamscapes. I’m not upset, at least I don’t think I am, but there isn’t a lot I’m sure of these days. I think about it and settle between a mix of displeasure and understanding. My thoughts cluster like a thick morning fog, and somewhere in the midst of them, I think, I wouldn’t want to stay up with someone like me either. 

She formulates in the fog and my head swings back and forth violently, desperately attempting to chase her memory away. Of course, it doesn’t work. So I press my head to the steel mesh of the station’s outdoor table and loop my fingers through the gaps in its surface. The cola is an afterthought, discarded on my lap. For a moment, I worry about the scale-like imprint the table might leave on my skin. Like often, that thought doesn’t stay very long. Because the image of her is persistent, and she is warm and alive in the chaos that lives between the walls of my skull. Her fingers trace the bone by my temples, the crown of my head. For a split second, I even feel her in my spine. When she comes to caress the sockets of my eyes, her touch comes in the company of heavy, hot tears. Too hot as they tease the edge of my eyelids, scalding, as they burn a path into my cheeks. 

I tip my head back, letting my eyes fall shut. I remember that horrible winter, that had long faded to spring. The winter in which, I had foolishly allowed myself to believe that we could cross paths again; that I’d walk into my buddy, Garrett’s, studio, and there she would be, curled up on the sofa. Her, not her thought nor her idea, but Her, in her tangible self. Maybe a friend would be at her side, and they would be so engrossed in conversation that she wouldn’t notice me at the doorway. Not until I got a firm pat on my back from Garrett or a gasp with a hug from Ollie. She would smile at me and give a small wave. I would do the same. In those dreams, she would never leave again. The only time I saw her wouldn’t just be on my phone screen, but beside me with her hand in mine. But dreams are just that, dreams. At the very least, I understand that now. 

It’s probably around 2 in the morning when I finally get up from the rickety table. My cola can is warm, and empty. The cherries on the aluminum remind me of her, so I don’t throw it away. I opt to keep it tight in my hold. My shoes slap lazily on the concrete, echoing out into the hushed neighborhoods. There are 9 light posts between the gas station and Ollie’s house, 3 fire hydrants, and about a million constellations. I am counting my fourth garage when my phone pings with a message. The pinging stays unchecked. 2 more garages. It’s on my 7th garage that my phone pings with two more alerts. Ollie, all three of them. 

2:13 am Where are u???? 

2:15 am I left the door unlocked, I need to go to garrett’s quick. 

2:17 am don’t do anything stupid and don’t wake up my parents!!! 

Ollie’s home is plunged in darkness by the time of my arrival, it’s missing his white car in the driveway. The open gate slightly swings in the gentle gust of wind. The night sings of cicadas and distant sirens, my skin is so hot that I’m afraid I might start melting. Ollie’s house is refreshing and safe, I know that. But my legs are glued to this spot on the corner of the block. With my entire heart, I love Ollie. Adored him from the moment we met in kindergarten, two sprouts with matching Toy Story bookbags. I utterly love him, even when I absolutely can’t stand him. But in a universe as unwelcoming as mine, his house is as suffocating as it is familiar. A neighboring house switches a light on, and I am gone, around the corner without another doubt.

I debate on going home, but that idea scatters like the street rats I walk by. It seems tonight I’m haunted with loneliness. Feeling this gets old, so old, that I think of knocking on a random door and making a friend. Until the realization comes, that I would most likely end up in a jail cell for the night. Sweat starts to compile at my neck and hands, forming small beads that drip off the tips of my fingers. My shorts are momentarily stained as I wipe my hands on them, the fabric is damp at my sides. But then it isn’t just damp, It is completely soaked. Water soaks into my hair and clothes, it smells of oil paint and dust. I let out a noise, half inhale, half shriek as the cold water shocks me. 

“What the actual hell!” I screech as a surprised gasp comes from above me, I snap my head up in time to see a pair of hands rapidly moving to shut an open window. 

I stand there soaking wet, and cold on the lonely sidewalk, still charring from the inside out.