disappears into a mat of thick-black hair that complements a skin that easily tans.
“Yeah, of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He looks to me, his glasses now reflecting light so that his eyes appear as tiny suns. “Just asking.”
William pulls into a gas station, parks, and starts filling up while explaining about small cars, small gas tanks, and the small islands Sprites were meant to be driven on. It is our third stop. He shakes the nozzle and bounces his car to make more room in the tank. He pays and we drive on.
The sun shines above me and the wind dries the sweat on my brow, and when I gaze into the bright sky, my eyes water. Then I start to feel those unannounced tears gathering, again, at the back of my throat. They come so often now. Roost behind my tonsils and beckon for me to let them loose. And then, I begin to cry.
“Oh my God. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing. I can’t talk about it.” I look away and swipe my arm across my face to dab the wetness.
We arch across the Waterway bridge as boats churn summer-warmedwater underneath us and as gulls canopy above. I gaze down the south channel. It disappears in the heat’s haze and the curve of the horizon. Then I scan northward, following a cloud trail, catching William’s eyes scrutinizing me.
“I’m scared to talk because of what you may think of me.”
William assures me that what I have to say won’t leave the open space of his car. I trust him, but I’m not sure what to do. But sometimes secrets come spilling out because they have to, because they must.
“I’m HIV positive.”
We come to the other side of the bridge, and William drives past our Cherry Grove exit while my hands cover my rosy face. I sob again.
“Oh, man,” William lets out. “Oh, man.”
He says it in a whisper, barely catching in my ear over the slowing motor’s idle. The wind slackens as we stall in North Myrtle Beach traffic. It is hot and getting worse. A trickle of sweat slides from beneath my armpit, runs its rivulet down my side, and disappears into my dampened clothing.
“Wow.” He exhales quietly into the windshield, a long and calming breath. “Is this because of your hemophilia?”
“Yes.”
My eyes close between my hands and my mind seizes upon a memory: in my parents’ backyard as evening fell, Dad sipped iced tea from a sweating glass while Anne jumped rope nearby on the patio. I’d been waiting all day for the heat to abate so that I could play outside, and I’d been anxious for night, for fireflies and their light’s flicker. I watched as the first tails sparked. Still able to see their bodies in the dark purple light, I chased their glimmer through the fresh-cut grass and cupped their fragile bodies in my palms, watching my hands glow a strange red as the bug’s tail ignited. After I forced their flashing bodies into thick-glass Mason jars, Mom punched air holes through the lid, and when bedtime came I propped the jar on my dresser and watched their tails dance light across my room as crickets hymned songs outside my open window. Lying flat atop the sheets, catching the cool wind from an electric fan, I played like a little god and wondered if I should let these fireflies go the next day or if I should keep them here for as long as their tails still lighted, for as long as their lives still flashed. There was suchpower and consequence in my decision and I knew it, and I knew, too, that fate was a fragile notion.
William reaches across the seat, rests his hand on my leg. “You’ll get through this,” he says over the caterwaul of angry horns snarled in hot traffic. “I know it.”
I tell him that I am scared, that I don’t know who I should blame, that I can’t understand why it happened to me, that I don’t know what I am supposed to do.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I know. There’s nothing to say . . . But at least I
“Yeah, of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He looks to me, his glasses now reflecting light so that his eyes appear as tiny suns. “Just asking.”
William pulls into a gas station, parks, and starts filling up while explaining about small cars, small gas tanks, and the small islands Sprites were meant to be driven on. It is our third stop. He shakes the nozzle and bounces his car to make more room in the tank. He pays and we drive on.
The sun shines above me and the wind dries the sweat on my brow, and when I gaze into the bright sky, my eyes water. Then I start to feel those unannounced tears gathering, again, at the back of my throat. They come so often now. Roost behind my tonsils and beckon for me to let them loose. And then, I begin to cry.
“Oh my God. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing. I can’t talk about it.” I look away and swipe my arm across my face to dab the wetness.
We arch across the Waterway bridge as boats churn summer-warmedwater underneath us and as gulls canopy above. I gaze down the south channel. It disappears in the heat’s haze and the curve of the horizon. Then I scan northward, following a cloud trail, catching William’s eyes scrutinizing me.
“I’m scared to talk because of what you may think of me.”
William assures me that what I have to say won’t leave the open space of his car. I trust him, but I’m not sure what to do. But sometimes secrets come spilling out because they have to, because they must.
“I’m HIV positive.”
We come to the other side of the bridge, and William drives past our Cherry Grove exit while my hands cover my rosy face. I sob again.
“Oh, man,” William lets out. “Oh, man.”
He says it in a whisper, barely catching in my ear over the slowing motor’s idle. The wind slackens as we stall in North Myrtle Beach traffic. It is hot and getting worse. A trickle of sweat slides from beneath my armpit, runs its rivulet down my side, and disappears into my dampened clothing.
“Wow.” He exhales quietly into the windshield, a long and calming breath. “Is this because of your hemophilia?”
“Yes.”
My eyes close between my hands and my mind seizes upon a memory: in my parents’ backyard as evening fell, Dad sipped iced tea from a sweating glass while Anne jumped rope nearby on the patio. I’d been waiting all day for the heat to abate so that I could play outside, and I’d been anxious for night, for fireflies and their light’s flicker. I watched as the first tails sparked. Still able to see their bodies in the dark purple light, I chased their glimmer through the fresh-cut grass and cupped their fragile bodies in my palms, watching my hands glow a strange red as the bug’s tail ignited. After I forced their flashing bodies into thick-glass Mason jars, Mom punched air holes through the lid, and when bedtime came I propped the jar on my dresser and watched their tails dance light across my room as crickets hymned songs outside my open window. Lying flat atop the sheets, catching the cool wind from an electric fan, I played like a little god and wondered if I should let these fireflies go the next day or if I should keep them here for as long as their tails still lighted, for as long as their lives still flashed. There was suchpower and consequence in my decision and I knew it, and I knew, too, that fate was a fragile notion.
William reaches across the seat, rests his hand on my leg. “You’ll get through this,” he says over the caterwaul of angry horns snarled in hot traffic. “I know it.”
I tell him that I am scared, that I don’t know who I should blame, that I can’t understand why it happened to me, that I don’t know what I am supposed to do.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I know. There’s nothing to say . . . But at least I
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