Shimmer
by Alex Hughes
Julie looks at me, her head resting on our cool pillow. She says, “I am too cozy.” She says, “We should leave,” so we do. She doesn’t hold my hand at first. And she doesn’t hold my hand later, either.
I watch the road and I watch her curl up against the door, knees rocking the window-crank back and forth. Wind pries in at us with a mad hot-breath howl; she blocks it back out. The road calls us and our flat-tired Ford. Bristling heat rolls off the atmosphere.
In seven miles smoke will pour out of the hood. We’ll pull over and I’ll pop the hood, stare into the plastic and rubber hose mess simmering in this heatwave, and know that I don’t know the first thing about placing smoke back in a machine.
I settle into the car seat, arms gripping the steering wheel misshapen from the sun. Sweat coats my back while AC kisses my forearms, my forehead, my lips—before it chaps them. Julie puts her foot up on the dash, her pores clear in the sweaty light, legs a week behind a shave. I want to kiss them.
In six miles, I will start walking, Julie staying with the car to protect it. I will ask, “From what?” and she will say, “From anyone who wants it.” But I am the one who wants it.
I honk the horn at nothing, in time with nothing: the world’s sloppiest “Shave and a Haircut.” “Funny,” she says and covers her legs. “You can just tell me these things, you know.” I bite my tongue.
In four miles, I will play hopscotch with the shade—prickly cacti shadows the only rest for a melting pair of sneakers. One shoe will dissolve on the asphalt. The other will survive—maybe even reach town. When I breathe, I will see oasis in my exhales. Or maybe I will see oasis because of my exhales—oxygen fleeing my body will replace providence.
In one mile, Julie will show up behind me like a mirage, her legs to the left of her body, her intestines a sine wave I could chart, so I will. She will say, “The car was hot.” I will say, “Everything is hot.” She will say, “I am not hot.” And I will say, “That is because you aren’t real.” She will kiss me with her fake lips, prick me with her little fake legs, and say, “Are you sure?” with a fake voice that doesn’t exist.
I turn left, listening to the rippling tires smack the road and strain in the curve, but I should have turned right. I am not sure of anything. Julie says, “Did you buy milk? Did you buy condoms? I'm certain I’m pregnant. Did you buy Wheaties like I asked?” I am not sure of anything.
In half a mile, I will hug this Julie and fall into the sand. I will eat the grains knowing they cannot refill this hour-glass.
Alex K. Hughes (He/Him) has been published in Crazyhorse (now swamp pink), Big Muddy, and has work forthcoming at The Bookends Review. His story, "A Rearing Pact" won the 2015 Crazyhorse Crazyshorts Short-Short fiction contest in 2015. His short story "Crown" was a semifinalist in Nimrod's The Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction in 2020. He was raised in Illinois, just across the Mississippi from St. Louis. He holds a PhD in English with emphasis in both creative writing, fiction and literature 1900-present. Presently, he teaches English at Oklahoma State University.