“No. Not like this.”
She waits a second. The corners of her mouth pull up ever so slightly.
“Good.”
Then she starts moving her hips again, and everything else fades to black.
10
Sofia
“I really have to go.” I wiggle in my seat like a child who . . . well, who has to pee.
Stanton grumbles. “We’ll be at the house soon.”
“Soon’s too long—stop at the next Starbucks.”
He looks at me like I suggested going for a dip in the ocean—on the moon.
“We don’t have a Starbucks here.”
I look from left to right, suspecting he’s messing with me. “What kind of godforsaken place is this?”
Over the course of our two-day cross-country trek, the strip malls and tall buildings have come fewer and farther between, replaced with cornfields and lonely houses set back from the road. A few miles back, Stanton pointed out the Welcome to Sunshine sign, but all that I’ve seen since are trees and empty fields. Soon I’ll be desperate enough to use one of the trees.
We pull onto a quiet street, sparse with cars. “A restaurant then,” I plead, trying to think of anything besides the incessant pressure on my bladder. “When we pass through the business district.”
That has him laughing, but I don’t get the joke.
“Ah¸ Soph? We’re in the business district.”
I look around. There’s only a few two-story buildings. The rest are small, one-story structures—a post office, a pharmacy, a barber shop, a bookstore—each with quaint awnings, not a chain name in sight.
“How can you tell?’
Stanton points to the red stoplight we’re waiting in front of. “The stoplight.”
“The stoplight?”
He smiles broader. “Yep . . . just the one.”
We drive down the street and I’m struck by how empty it seems, especially on a Saturday morning. I shiver as I think of Children of the Corn, an eighties flick that scared the shit out of me when I was ten years old.
I didn’t eat corn again for months.
Stanton pulls into a parking spot and motions to the door in front of us. “Diner. You can piss here.”
I get out of the car before he makes it around to open my door. “I’ll wait out here,” he tells me. “If I go in with you, we’ll get stuck in a dozen different conversations and it’ll be fucking ages before we get to my house.”
I rush through the door, a bell above my head chiming a welcome. And the eyes of every patron stare. At me.
There are a few middle-aged men in trucker caps, a few in cowboy hats, two little old ladies in floral dresses with thick glasses, and one young brown-haired woman—struggling with two toddlers bouncing in a booth.
I arch my hand in a wave. “Howdy, y’all.”
Most greet me with a nod, and I ask the short-haired brunette behind the counter where the restroom is. She directs me to the one unisex bathroom in the back.
Feeling the sweet relief of being five pounds lighter, I wash my hands, pull off a sheet from the paper towel roll to dry them, and toss it into the coverless garbage can. I exit the bathroom door and run smack into the person waiting to enter.
A tall guy with a beer belly, black T-shirt, and cowboy hat, smelling of stale cigarettes, with dark gunk under his fingernails. He grasps my arms, to keep me from bouncing back like a pinball after colliding with the gelatinous mass of his midsection. A lifetime of city living has me automatically uttering an insincere “Sorry.”
But as I go to step around him, he matches my move, blocking my way.
“Slow down there, honey. What’s your hurry?” he drawls, looking me up and down before his gaze gets too well acquainted with my chest.
“Hey—cowboy,” I snap. “Lose something? My eyes are up here.”
He licks his lips slowly. “Yeah, I know where your eyes are.”
But he doesn’t look at them.
“Nice. So much for southern hospitality.”
He tips his hat back, finally looking up. “You passin’ through? Need a ride? My backseat is mighty hospitable.”
“No . . . and ew.”
Using my shoulder, I force my way past the randy cowboy and walk back out onto the sidewalk. I find Stanton by the car, chatting with a diminutive older woman with poofy gray hair. Well . . . listening may be more accurate, as Stanton’s just nodding—seemingly unable to get a word in edgewise.
He looks relieved when I step up, but his face has a pink tinge that wasn’t there before and the tips of his ears are glowing red. “Miss Bea,” he introduces, “this is Sofia Santos.”
“Hello.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Sofia. Aren’t you pretty!”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“And so tall. It must be nice to stand out in a crowd—I’ve never known that feelin’ myself.”
“Haven’t thought about it like that but, yes, I guess it is.”
Stanton clears his throat. “Well, we should get going.”
“Oh yes,” Miss Bea agrees. But then keeps talking. “Your momma is goin’ to be so happy to see you. I have to be on my way also, stoppin’ by the pharmacy to get Mr. Ellington the laxative. He’s constipatin’ somethin’ fierce. Hasn’t moved his bowels in four days, the poor dear. He’s grumpy as an ole bear.”
Stanton nods. “I bet.”
She waits a second. The corners of her mouth pull up ever so slightly.
“Good.”
Then she starts moving her hips again, and everything else fades to black.
10
Sofia
“I really have to go.” I wiggle in my seat like a child who . . . well, who has to pee.
Stanton grumbles. “We’ll be at the house soon.”
“Soon’s too long—stop at the next Starbucks.”
He looks at me like I suggested going for a dip in the ocean—on the moon.
“We don’t have a Starbucks here.”
I look from left to right, suspecting he’s messing with me. “What kind of godforsaken place is this?”
Over the course of our two-day cross-country trek, the strip malls and tall buildings have come fewer and farther between, replaced with cornfields and lonely houses set back from the road. A few miles back, Stanton pointed out the Welcome to Sunshine sign, but all that I’ve seen since are trees and empty fields. Soon I’ll be desperate enough to use one of the trees.
We pull onto a quiet street, sparse with cars. “A restaurant then,” I plead, trying to think of anything besides the incessant pressure on my bladder. “When we pass through the business district.”
That has him laughing, but I don’t get the joke.
“Ah¸ Soph? We’re in the business district.”
I look around. There’s only a few two-story buildings. The rest are small, one-story structures—a post office, a pharmacy, a barber shop, a bookstore—each with quaint awnings, not a chain name in sight.
“How can you tell?’
Stanton points to the red stoplight we’re waiting in front of. “The stoplight.”
“The stoplight?”
He smiles broader. “Yep . . . just the one.”
We drive down the street and I’m struck by how empty it seems, especially on a Saturday morning. I shiver as I think of Children of the Corn, an eighties flick that scared the shit out of me when I was ten years old.
I didn’t eat corn again for months.
Stanton pulls into a parking spot and motions to the door in front of us. “Diner. You can piss here.”
I get out of the car before he makes it around to open my door. “I’ll wait out here,” he tells me. “If I go in with you, we’ll get stuck in a dozen different conversations and it’ll be fucking ages before we get to my house.”
I rush through the door, a bell above my head chiming a welcome. And the eyes of every patron stare. At me.
There are a few middle-aged men in trucker caps, a few in cowboy hats, two little old ladies in floral dresses with thick glasses, and one young brown-haired woman—struggling with two toddlers bouncing in a booth.
I arch my hand in a wave. “Howdy, y’all.”
Most greet me with a nod, and I ask the short-haired brunette behind the counter where the restroom is. She directs me to the one unisex bathroom in the back.
Feeling the sweet relief of being five pounds lighter, I wash my hands, pull off a sheet from the paper towel roll to dry them, and toss it into the coverless garbage can. I exit the bathroom door and run smack into the person waiting to enter.
A tall guy with a beer belly, black T-shirt, and cowboy hat, smelling of stale cigarettes, with dark gunk under his fingernails. He grasps my arms, to keep me from bouncing back like a pinball after colliding with the gelatinous mass of his midsection. A lifetime of city living has me automatically uttering an insincere “Sorry.”
But as I go to step around him, he matches my move, blocking my way.
“Slow down there, honey. What’s your hurry?” he drawls, looking me up and down before his gaze gets too well acquainted with my chest.
“Hey—cowboy,” I snap. “Lose something? My eyes are up here.”
He licks his lips slowly. “Yeah, I know where your eyes are.”
But he doesn’t look at them.
“Nice. So much for southern hospitality.”
He tips his hat back, finally looking up. “You passin’ through? Need a ride? My backseat is mighty hospitable.”
“No . . . and ew.”
Using my shoulder, I force my way past the randy cowboy and walk back out onto the sidewalk. I find Stanton by the car, chatting with a diminutive older woman with poofy gray hair. Well . . . listening may be more accurate, as Stanton’s just nodding—seemingly unable to get a word in edgewise.
He looks relieved when I step up, but his face has a pink tinge that wasn’t there before and the tips of his ears are glowing red. “Miss Bea,” he introduces, “this is Sofia Santos.”
“Hello.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Sofia. Aren’t you pretty!”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“And so tall. It must be nice to stand out in a crowd—I’ve never known that feelin’ myself.”
“Haven’t thought about it like that but, yes, I guess it is.”
Stanton clears his throat. “Well, we should get going.”
“Oh yes,” Miss Bea agrees. But then keeps talking. “Your momma is goin’ to be so happy to see you. I have to be on my way also, stoppin’ by the pharmacy to get Mr. Ellington the laxative. He’s constipatin’ somethin’ fierce. Hasn’t moved his bowels in four days, the poor dear. He’s grumpy as an ole bear.”
Stanton nods. “I bet.”
