Nicole Dixon - You Wouldn't Recognize Me
Walt, my hero, my prince in blue jeans and a shining pick-up. How many times have you rescued me? It all started over twenty years ago: me, a near-virginal bride with a developing addiction, you, my still-thin, newly employed groom. Driving off into the sunrise, not the sunset.
“And you thought you’d hung up your spurs. No more damsels in distress.”
“What are you talking about?” Walt gives me the look, quickly, from the driver’s seat. I can hear my bike squeaking and sliding around in the back of his truck.
“No, not that look. That’s only for when I’m drunk.”
“You smell like you are.”
“In a bottle, in the body, alcohol always lets you know it’s around.” I turn his radio on, flip to a classic rock station, then turn it off. “This wagon ride’s a bumpy one,” I finally say.
“I can’t get mad anymore,” he says. “I’m not going to fight.”
“Shut me out then. Walt the conscientious objector. Walt the draft dodger. It’s what you do best. Work, TV, silence. I yelled to get through your friggen walls.”
I move my hand up and down between us. Yup, that wall’s still there, solid as ever. He grabs my hand and pushes it back to my side of the truck.
“Your hand is freezing.”
“I forgot my gloves.”
I tell him why I left the house so quickly. Why I was at the liquor store. After more silence I say, “Do you remember our first time?”
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“Barely,” he grins.
“I can count how many times I’ve seen you that drunk. Wasn’t my first time.”
Walt stops smiling.
“Wait. What do you mean?”
“First time drunk. Wait. Oh!” I sit up. “You thought I meant first time. Oh no. It was. My first time. It’s why I remember so clearly. Ouch!”
“I wonder if anyone has ever lost their hymen to a guy named Hyman?”
I laugh, then say, “I know someone who has to a boy named Digger.”
