Sunday Summer Nights by Michaela Fisher
The truck squeaks frantically under the lone flickering street lamp , the pug bobble-head keeping perfect time on the dashboard . Surrounding the deserted street are endless rows of corn , held stagnant in the humid summer air . Mosquitos hum around the isolated source of light , occasionally flying too close and tail spinning into the dirt road like dying fireworks .
The rusty truck windows are cloudy , obscured by heated breath . Inside two bodies strain together in the pushed down passenger seat . Their clothes are strewn about , her zebra striped bra draped across the stick shift , his wrinkled John Deer shirt crumpled in the back . The inside of the old truck smells like Blue Ribbon beer and chew , a smell they have both long since become numb to .
This is not their first time , in the truck . It is a ritual they have every Sunday night . A release of sorts , before the long stretching week .
He clenches her hips when he comes , a groan escaping between chapped lips . He pushes himself off her as he slides into the driver ’ s seat , both of their bodies slick with sweat . The truck , now finally at rest , gives way to the sound of swarms of crickets in the cornfields .
She pulls up the seat so it ’ s level once more and wordlessly reaches for her panties wadded up on the truck floor . He pushes back damp brown hair , which is swallowed a moment later by his camo hat .
He holds out the used rubber like one might hold a feral barn cat , with both disdain and caution . He rolls down the window a stitch , heavy air nearly as hot as the inside of the truck greeting him .
He glances back at her ; she is just sliding her shirt back onto her thin frame . He is staring at her crooked beige birthmark that kisses her hip when he tosses the condom out of his window .
Perhaps it is his tired brown eyes on her , or the window only being partially cracked , or the repetition has simply made him lazy , but whatever the reason , rubber does not meet dirt . Instead , the used condom clips the top of the windowpane , and ricochets backward , spilling its contents all over the steering wheel .
A gasp of surprise erupts from him , followed by a passionate string of curses . Some of it begins to drip onto his worn ripped jeans , and he jumps out of the truck before another milky drop can fall . His boots hit the ground hard , sending up a muted cloud of dust in the late summer air . Still muttering curses he wipes his jeans with his hand , his lips curled in disgust . When he is done he looks back at her expectantly , and then pulls a container of chew from his back pocket and turns away from the truck .
She sighs , running her fingers across her sensitive face , irritated by his unshaved stubble . She opens the glove compartment , and a clutter of ketchup packets , pens , torn maps , and old chip bags come into view . Gingerly , she ruffles between the messes until she procures a wad of napkins . She looks at him , his back turned as he scuffs his shoes against red dirt . Shaking her head , she reaches across to the driver ’ s side seat and starts to wipe away the Sunday summer night .
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