September 8, 2023 - Elizabeth Lerman’s “You sit in the soundless dark”

Your lighter illuminates several mosquitos circling the bare skin of your chest and you watch for a moment, waiting to see which one will settle on you. You like to slap your hand against them and see if any blood comes out. Two land at the same time. One bites while you crush the other. You wipe the remains away with your finger and scratch at the latest swelling spot thinking, still, you would rather sit out here than in there, where his mother will smell the smoke on you and scowl, say something like, if you can’t stop for yourself, Ruthie, stop for him.

“You know he hates it,” May says.

“Yes, I know.”

“I gave it up when Bobby asked me to.”

“You gave it up when Bobby told you to.”

She smiles, tight lipped, no teeth. “Well, maybe I like to listen.”

“I like to listen. Less fond of obeying.”

“You might be too stubborn for marriage.”

“Good thing you didn’t marry me then.”

“Didn’t I, though?” She laughs loudly and nudges me in a way that is almost sweet, almost soul crushing. 

Outside your legs burn with bites from nights before. You play a game with yourself. You sit in the soundless dark and see how long you can go without scratching.