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THE KITCHEN The Home is where intimacy, solace, tension, and nostalgia all live together under one terracotta roof.
For this Issue, we have created a curated playlist that aligns with the cadence of the magazine. Scan the code below in the Spotify app for a full sensory Strike experience:
Throughout this issue, we inspect different parts of the home and the memories that live there. The yellowed cookbook on the kitchen counter with dog-eared pages. The photobooth picture stuck to your bedroom wall with scotch tape. The attic, full of cardboard boxes that should really go (but you’ll do it some other time). The overgrown garden the neighbors chide from their kitchen window. The car hidden under a canvas sheet collecting dust instead of miles. The home is an archive of our past and a reflection of our present. Our third issue looks at how homes shape us.
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CONTENTS
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THE KITCHEN Recipe Lineage Cocina Embrujada
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THE BEDROOM Denial, Myopia
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THE ATTIC
3757 Locksley Drive Ghost of the Past
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THE GARDEN Planted Impressions
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THE DRIVEWAY Console and Control
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Editor in Chief James Landman Co-Editor in Chief Jenna Pearlstein Operations Director Noa Diamond Art Director Lilia Jimenez Assistant Editor in Chief Natalie Rubenstein Writing Director Sidney Speicher Styling Director Alex Lutz Beauty Director Dylan Bell Casting Director CJ Benn Merchandise Director Ariel Grossman & Abby Kirchmeier Marketing Director Phoebe Greenspan & Julie Song Social Media Biddi Solomon Social Media Strategist Ali Koenig Music Director Ariel Grossman Videographer Maya Gottlieb Sponsorship Coordinator Annie Levitt Finance Director Haley Mordis Public Relations Eva Romanoff & Lucie Merkatz Photography Anjali Reddy Sofia Angulo-Lopera Ben Levine
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Ethan Tsai Bailey Herman Editorial Graphic Design Maya Simon Abby Kirchmeier Grace Li Kate Sands Hanna Fu Thuy Tren Digital Graphic Design Allie Sassa Helen Jiang Maya Gottlieb Styling Team Maddie Savitch Krishna Vaidyanathan Teni Toriola Olivia Baba Sasha Kudon Demi Irgang Lily Pecoriello Ally Kim Elena Egge Hannah Hollingsworth Natalie Chen Sara Gerson Writers Ali Meltzer Sydney Greer Amanda Kravitz Hannah Bash Riley Card Bailey Herman Brook Wang Camilla Maionica Editors Talia Chairman Hannah Hummel
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As I sit down to write my final Letter From the Editor, I feel an immense amount of pride paired with profound disbelief. This time last year Jenna, Lilia, Noa and myself were on zoom putting the final touches on our first issue, and now we have completed our third. This organization has come so far since our first semester. We have transitioned from virtual to in person. We have grown from just a few members to over 50 members. We have officially changed our name to represent the St. Louis community. Most importantly, we have created a constant and supportive community. Our Strike family is full of hard workers and fierce imagineers. In September 2020, I met with Emma Oleck to discuss the opportunity to start a Strike chapter, and the past two years have been an absolute pleasure. I am so beyond appreciative of my entire team. I would like to give a special thank you to three individuals, though. Jenna, Lilia, and Noa, thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping me make my dream a reality. Without you none of this would have happened. I am eternally grateful for your help leading our team these past two years. Strike has given me so much, from meeting inspiring new people to sharpening my creative interests. I have learned that art and fashion can bring people together in such a unique way. For the third semester in a row, we have come together to execute an idea and tell a story. This semester we chose The Home as our theme for Strike, and rightfully so. They say home is where the heart is, and Strike feels like home to me. This process has been nothing short of extraordinary and I feel so lucky to work with everyone who has touched this magazine. To my team, thank you. You have made this experience absolutely perfect. You are all such talented and extraordinary people, I am so excited to see the things you do. To Emma Oleck, Savannah Tindall, and Ashley Rickman thank you for helping advise our chapter over the past year. You have been such an inspiration and I hope to work with you in the future. To Hannah Kealy, thank you for starting this amazing platform and trusting us to continue your vision. Being the Editor and Chief of Strike Magazine St. Louis has been the experience of a lifetime. As I look back, I would not change a thing. This entire process has been non-stop exciting, overwhelming, and invigorating. Thank you again to everyone who has helped me along the way. For the last time, Strike Out. James Landman
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Recipe Lineage
PHOTOGRAPHER: Sofia Angulo Lopera WRITER: Hannah Bash LAYOUT: Abby Kirchmeier BEAUTY: Dylan Bell Natalie Rubenstein STYLISTS: Elena Egge Krishna Vaidyanathan Lily Pecoriello Sara Gerson FEATURING: Lily Pecoriello Eloise Harcourt Jake Steinberg Lily Gordon
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Our kitchens do not just serve as a room in which to create delicious meals, but also a room to craft relationships with people who bond over one simple thing: food. When is your earliest memory of being involved in the kitchen? Generational recipes are those that are passed down through the family lineage. Often people imagine these recipes written down on a recipe card or in a homemade recipe book. The ingredients and instructions are written in cursive and the paper is faded with stains of some mysterious liquid.
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These recipes provide a way for families to continuously connect with the previous generations. For example, my family has a famous meatball recipe that we use on the Jewish High Holy Days. The recipe originated from my paternal great-grandma, although she was quite reluctant to give it up. As she grew older and was unable to cook herself, she would talk my mom through its steps while she hovered over her in the kitchen. This was how my mom and great-grandma formed a strong bond. However, there was one tiny problem - my great-grandma refused to give the exact proportions of each ingredient. She left it up to my mom to decide. It was a cycle; my mom would make a batch of meatballs and my great-grandma would taste test them. Ultimately, my mom became as close to perfection according to my great-grandma’s standards as she could. Even though my great-grandma always said they were never as
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I now make the meatballs on Jewish holidays for my friends here and myself to enjoy. I’ve received overwhelming positive feedback; there are always few to no leftovers. While we each have our unique spin on the recipe, every time I make them, I feel closer to my great-grandma. The flavors bring back fond memories of her. The kitchen also allows one to connect with their religion and culture through traditional dishes. When I was younger, my family always celebrated Shabbat. My mom would make challah, we would light the candles and say the prayers, and then have a special meal together. As I got older,
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kitchen
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my mom always made the challah dough that I would then braid . It became a special activity for us to share every week that also allowed me to connect with Judaism. When I came to college, I kept up with the tradition and made challah for my friends. I also learned how to make the brisket that my family always ate on Rosh Hashanah. My friends all make different dishes as we celebrate the holiday. They call me the Jewish mother of the group because I organize the meals for Rosh Hashanah, break-fast on Yom Kippur, and Passover. Besides the actual cooking in the kitchen, gathering for meals also allows ample time for people to connect. Although it is often difficult to find a time for everyone to eat togeth-
er with their busy schedules, when possible, dinners with friends and family provide a time to step away from technology and truly engage. Religious holidays and Thanksgiving also provide this opportunity while bringing together family members who live farther away. One can spend hours at the dinner table as one talks about old stories, simultaneously making new memories. Lastly, when reflecting on the significance of the kitchen, I think it is important to recognize that there are many people who do not have access to this space, and struggle with food insecurity. While the kitchen can be a topic of love and joy for many, it is also a place of hardship for others. Here in St. Louis, I volunteer at the
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local food bank every week. I encourage anyone who has the time to volunteer there as well. Each time I leave , I truly feel that I have made a difference in the local community. Volunteers learn that “hunger can affect anyone and anyone can affect hunger”. I find this to be an inspirational sentiment, and something we should all think about the next time we are fortunate enough to gather around the table for a meal.
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Cocina Embrujada WRITERS: Camilla Maionica LAYOUT & ARTWORK: Hanna Fu
The wooden pearl toned chair on the dinner table still creaks The faucet next to the dishwasher sings as it leaks Ghosts haunt my kitchen, reminding me of what used to be Recipes for every era of my young life My first recipe was an extra fudge brownie mix my Abuela bought me Milk, Flour, 2 eggs, brown sugar, and all the chocolate money could buy Brownies sugar-coated-in glee In the kitchen, her worries were set free No worries about visas, no talk of papers My Abuela, an immigrant like me, taught me how to sugarcoat life The separation of our family and the status of our stay were rife But the brownies, just like her love, never were in short supply The kitchen echoes of her chuckles as she tasted her infamous treats
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The day she left America she left a cookbook at my doorstep
homemade chocolate cookies the day he left
One bite and I was back in that same kitchen with her by my side
A guide on how to see the good in life, how to make my own flavorful treats
A note was written on it, “You are my favorite chef”
How could I have let those memories die?
I opened the book, its syrup-filled writing guiding me
The kitchen is now plagued by goodbyes
She was always right, I was the secret ingredient to my life, my happiness
Suspiros: honey-filled bites of white, fluffy clouds
I couldn't step foot in a place filled with cobwebs,
Practicing self-love through my delicacies was my therapy
In the kitchen, I knew I must make my Abuela proud
Couldn't cook among ghosts
My reminder of the good through the tough moments that came by
Share the love she gave me I made suspiros for my first crush Handing my offering of endearment to him I felt my brain mush My face was rosy, starting to blush Colors of red and pink began to flush My cheeks pigmented brightly and my heart open for sweet love
I avoided my recipe book, no more sugar I dispensed I started a sugar-free diet to use as my defense Believing I would fail to find my personal secret ingredient, I froze in time Mi papa y mi mama begged me to stop the nonsense
My origin, My roots, my reflection on the complicated journey of self Even burdened with grief, a strong girl never lacking love The wooden pearl toned chair on the dinner table still creaks A creaking familiar to my family tree It is the same chair my Abuelo first broke
“Oye Mija, No te dejes quemar” my grandma would call and say
As he sat watching my Abuela cook, the screw felt loose
“Remember you are the best creation there is, nadie como tu”
Oh how we laughed as he gasped, “Dios Mio”
She would call me her secret ingredient
The creaks are music, just like the faucet that sings
I searched and searched to find my own
It sings songs of the love that I lost
For my next love, I made my Abuela’s irreplaceable flan
Now I know I would never change his departure at any cost
Sitting at the dinner table, he promised to love me as best as one can
His love gave me hope for what could be
Through the kitchen, we followed my grandma's teachings
Reminded me of the delights I have yet to indulge in
He took the lead, a kitchen lit up by the love of two beings He read the recipes, practicing my native tongue, reminding me of childhood days But his stirring grew sloppy, and the kitchen burst into flames No suspiros, No brownies could erase the newfound bitterness he preached The sour fear of loss clouded his mind and left me stranded No more late nights lit by nothing but the kitchen fridge and the moonlight Abuela sent me a whole box of her
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But one morning I woke up with a substantial sugar craving I dashed into the kitchen and from the top right cabinet took out my precious book My hands were steady as I looked. Putting myself back togetherDulce de Leche, Corn starch, and 4 tablespoons of vanilla extract Precision and dedication to the instructions my grandma left behind With a smooth tempo, I baked until my masterpiece was perfected Alfajores: Rich in condensed milk, not one bit undercooked
He couldn't fathom the real secret ingredient to survival Our love for who we are, where we come from: The ghosts suspended in our kitchens My ex having complained of the leaking, “You need to get the faucet and the chair fixed” But I am so glad I never did My kitchen will stay haunted, my life will remain candied And I will be defiantly baking the sweetest brownies to exist
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Denial, Myopia
PHOTOGRAPHER: Ben Levine WRITER: Brook Wang LAYOUT & ARTWORK: Kate Sands BEAUTY: Dylan Bell
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STYLISTS: Maddie Savitch Sasha Kudon Ally Kim FEATURING: Bianca Rodriguez Pagano Will Lay
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Pour me some champagne Today is: denial, myopia
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I’m nine years old. I sit quietly at the kitchen table, digging into the perfect stack of pancakes: warm, soft, and topped with syrup and a slice of butter in the shape of a heart. My father is at the stove flipping more pancakes for my mother, while she tends to her gardens in the backyard. I can spot her figure out the white-framed window she paid the designers to install. Father is lecturing me about my future, again. “... something I’ve learned. Life is all about appearances. You have to portray yourself a certain way on the outside. People will respect you that way. Understand, honey? When I was younger…” I’m 18 years old. I sit across from him in the cafeteria, surrounded by our friends. He says something that makes the table erupt with laughter. What was it? I’m too busy staring at him. He’s a dream. Exactly how I imagined my boyfriend to be. Handsome. Strong. Smart.
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Perfect. I love him. God, I love him. Sometimes I wonder. How come he does this when we’re in public but that when we’re alone? How come he says this to me in the morning but that at night? How come he treats me like this at a party but like that when we’re tangled in bed? Sometimes my head is such a mess. I don’t like feeling this way. I lay my hand on top of his and rejoin the conversation.
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The glass is cracking Today is: frustration, annoyance, confusion, bliss.
I always think it’ll get better. There’s this little bubble inside me, full of hope. Sweet, innocent hope. He knows what makes me feel good. I love you so much, baby. And I’m so sorry about yesterday. Do you forgive me? I promise I’ll be better. I just have a lot going on right now. I wanna marry you someday. We’ll be so happy. Can you see it, baby? We’ll have a house and three kids and a dog named Lucy and... But then he does these things that make me feel like shit. I start living for the highs, and I start dreading the lows.
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Glass shattered on the floor Today is pain, pain, pain. He goes to a party tonight without me. Me – anxious? No. Never. Wait. Fuck that. I’m anxious. I can’t trust him. A phone call from him at 2:14 AM. “Why the fuck are you texting me right now?” Shaking shaking shaking I’m not scared of him. I’m not scared of him. I’m not scared of him. He calls me names. Belittles me. Insults me.
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You’re so needy. I can’t even believe it. I said I love you. Is that not enough? A scoff. Of course not. I’m never fucking enough for a girl like you, huh? You think you’re so pretty and popular and perfect and Every word is a blade piercing my skin. I’m being stabbed over and over again. I don’t want to hear this. I can’t hear this. My ears start to ring, so well-timed. Did I will it upon myself? All I hear is ring ring ring But no – my ears betray me. I love you. Fuck you, traitorous ears. Fuck you, because that was it. The one thing I was dying to hear. And suddenly I feel so sick. I feel like I need to throw up, like there’s bugs crawling all over me, like I would never be at peace unless I bashed my head against the window so hard that it cracked into a thousand little pieces. A spiderweb. I hurl my phone at my window. It’s not my head, but it’ll do. The glass shatters into the spiderweb I imagined, just as I dissolve into a puddle of nothingness on my bedroom floor.
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When will this feeling end? There’s a voice inside my head. If I close my eyes, I can see her. She wears a sad little smile, her eyes full of pity. “I’m sorry, baby, but this is just the beginning.”
The faint morning light streams in through my window. I lay on my bed, staring at nothing, feeling everything. There’s a war raging in my head. A constant tug of war. One side pulls me towards him. One side pulls me towards self-protection. It’s a struggle everyday to tip the scale in favor of my side – the right side? I’m not sure. I miss him. I miss his voice, his smile, his face. But there’s something I miss even more: myself. In the early morning light, I wonder
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The End.
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THE ATTIC
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THE ATTIC
PHOTOGRAPHER: Bailey Herman WRITER: Bailey Herman LAYOUT: Maya Simon BEAUTY: Dylan Bell Natalie Rubenstein STYLISTS: Natalie Chen Hannah Hollingsworth FEATURING: Caroline Kaplan Eve Spalding Paola Santiago
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The living room always grumbles When Gammy has guests over. No one sits in the brown leather chair For that chair is his.
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Magenta lipstick kisses and bulging bellies emit the slow drawl of Birmingham dialect. A heaping spoon of peanut butter, Stuck in the back of their mouths Like glue, Their words slide into each other with both a grace and a clumsiness I’m in the chair. He’d say “Get your butt out of my seat” A knowing smile A pinch on the cheek He'd be back to trivial banter Witty quips and wild eyes
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The room still grumbles with Magenta lipstick kisses and Peanut butter Birmingham tongue While I melt into my grandfather’s recliner Replace its insides with mine Trade my blood and organs for its stuffing Linger until I've been there long enough That my skin becomes the cracked cognac leather Then I can put on my magenta lipstick Eat a spoonful of peanut butter and Re-enter the living room grumble
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PHOTOGRAPHER: Bailey Herman WRITER: Sydney Greer LAYOUT & ARTWORK: Maya Simon
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BEAUTY: Dylan Bell STYLISTS: Natalie Chen Hannah Hollingsworth
No light seeps in through the windows. No smells waft through the halls, drifting sluggishly from room to room, filling them with the melancholy sweetness of a day gone by.
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At night the house stands still.
At night the house sleeps quietly. The central air conditioning hums gently in the background. The normal footsteps echoing on the hardwood have abated, their owners retiring to their resting places. All stands still and all sleeps quietly. And then a deafening creak. A peaceful rest rudely interrupted. A slender frame propped up in bed, sitting, listening, waiting. Her mind begins to run. Had a burglar slithered in through the window, sinisterly traipsing through the unknowing halls? Had a door been left ajar, allowing the dangers of the outside world in, her fort no longer impenetrable? No, these creaks are just her mind, poking, prodding her out of the pleasant sleep that had once consumed her. She squeezes her eyes shut until tiny dots appear in the center of her vision. The cracks and creaks have eased, and yet the noise now consumes her mind. She is still, thinking. No, it is not the burglars and ghosts that scare her, not the evil demons who filled the halls of her childhood nightmares. It is the attic, piled high with boxes and baggage, treasures shoved deeply into the recesses of the otherwise tidy house to be forgotten.
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All stands still and all sleeps quietly
Only the baggage isn’t forgotten. Not by her at least. Long ago she began to understand that the attic existed inside her. At least this could explain the bags piled high in the depths of her mind. There existed a bag for every pervasive regret, for every love lost and for every fear of losing another. There were bags for the memories she desperately wished to forget, the ones where all she could do is relive what he did to her through her nightmares. There were bags that held no contents at all, instead stretching into a black hole of emptiness. These were the bags she feared the most, those that no amount of cleansing could possibly purge. There were beautiful bags too. Bags adorned and embroidered, bursting from the seams with the vibrancy of a distant youthful dream. But these bright beautiful bags had been crowded out, pushed away to make room for the ever-growing, all-consuming collection of the darker, heavier loads. She regularly attempts to clean the attic, burning boxes until the smoke obscures her vision, but, for every box burned, another takes its place. She wishes for a simple solution, a light switch to cast the attic into darkness once and for all, tape to seal its leaks. She tries remedy after remedy; counting her breaths until her body stops shaking, pretty little blue pills for the power to get out of
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bed in the morning, and each and every time she waits for the day when the baggage would simply dissipate. But it doesn’t. It sits in defiance and gathers dust. Only that’s the issue with the attic. No amount of surface-level dusting could possibly eliminate the deeply ingrained remnants of her past. This is because they become a part of the attic, slowly meshing into one never-ending pile of baggage, collecting every day until the ceiling is not visible. The acceptance of this fact is not easy, not at all. For how can she possibly accept that the attic must simply stay piled high with her ever-growing baggage? How can she shut her eyes knowing what lurks above her? It was not until she finally sat down on the floor of the room covered with boxes that she truly understood. Because it was not seeing her baggage that gave her the clarity, but the slamming shut of the attic door after that gave her power.
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She wishes for a simple solution, a light switch to cast the attic into darkness once and for all, tape to seal its leaks.
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THE GARDEN
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THE GARDEN
PHOTOGRAPHER: Ethan Tsai Anjali Reddy WRITER: Ali Meltzer LAYOUT: Grace Li BEAUTY: Dylan Bell Natalie Rubenstein STYLISTS: Olivia Baba Teni Toriola FEATURING: Grace Lin Kennedy Morganfield Sidney Speicher
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THE GARDEN
NINE T
he garden nestled in the patio of Thea’s home in central New Jersey can only be described as ethereal, at least in Thea’s mind. Her house itself has the same white stucco coating and tired, rectangular shape as every other house in the cul-de-sac, but the garden is a haven only for Thea and her family. Between the cracks in the artificial-stone ground grow clusters of stems, stretched outward to the sky, with flowers with paper-thin petals, just strong enough to survive but not strong enough to avoid being rustled by the wind. They sway like ballet dancers, glimmering in the radiant sunlight. Every summer day before dinnertime, Thea goes out to the garden. She sits in the nook she crafted out of old blankets and pillows, pulls out her box of paints and brushes, and gets to work. Her goal is to paint every little decorative rock that her mom bought to line the garden, transforming them from gray to neon. She’s about halfway done now, and the plants are lined with rocks decorated as seascapes, five-petaled flowers, and ladybugs, among other things. Today she gets to work on a rock that she plans on covering with fireworks, just like the ones she saw just a month ago on the Fourth of July when she and the neighborhood kids ran down to the water basin to catch fireflies. Thea had never seen as many fireflies as she saw
that day, and as all the other kids ran around trying to catch as many as they could, she would follow them, watching as they danced in the air. They were so much more beautiful when they were free. As Thea paints another firework on her rock, she decides that their Fourth of July was one of her favorite days, and that this, too, is going to be her favorite rock.
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points to an ambiguous string of stars in the night sky and looks over at Piper, who lays next to her in the nook, nestled between pillows and a wooly blue blanket. The winter wind pounds against their faces and rustles the already shriveled plants, but the girls don’t care at all. Letting today’s rock dry, Thea looks out at the sunset over her swing-set and listens as the cicadas chirp and the neighborhood dogs bark. She doesn’t know it at the time, but she sees the world in neon, with the same vibrancy of the synthetic paint that covers her rocks, her hands, and her strawberry-pink dress. It is only years later that she’ll realize how lovely it is that she could ever see the world in such a way, with bliss that is only ever achievable before you reach the age of ten. But for now, she is content and immersed in the moment, not looking forward to the future or back to the past; the garden is her favorite place in her home, perhaps in the whole world, and she is simply enjoying being a part of it. “What do you think that one is?” Thea
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“That one has gotta be the big dipper.” “Piper, they can’t all be the big dipper.” “Why not?’ “Because there’s only one big dipper.” “Says who?”
That’s what Thea loves so much about Piper; she makes her own rules. It was her decision to leave their seventh grade dance to get slurpees and sit in the garden, and, as they rode home in her Mom’s Buick, Thea felt far more comfortable than she did on the sweaty dance floor of their middle school gym, watching as classmates she had never even seen together danced stiffly to Ed Sheeran. She is far more comfortable sitting here with Piper, sipping until her teeth stain blue and watching as the world above them rotates softly. She thinks to herself how small they are now, how much they have to grow, and how little any of it matters, anyway. “What’s that one?” Thea gestures to a group of stars that is even more shape-
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people who pretend that they own the stars. She’ll meet the art kids who go to the park after football games and pass around joints that she isn’t quite ready to smoke, the charming older boy at the beach who tells her that he just saw a shooting star but it still wasn’t as pretty as she is, and countless other friends and potential lovers who point out the world above in a pseudo-intellectual attempt to find meaning in nothingness. None of these people, however, will ever compare to Piper, whose eternal
optimism made Thea believe that one day she would find her place in it all, too.
less than the previous one. “That one is a fish.” “And that one?” “A dog, obviously. It looks just like Bailey.” They look at each other and giggle, exposing dimples, braces, and blue teeth. All of the stars in the sky belong to them. Thea doesn’t know it yet, but she is going to come across many more
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Thea has long outgrown the days where she can sit comfortably in her childhood nook in the garden, but she sits there often anyway, contorting her legs to fit into the space where she feels most at home. Sometimes she’ll read a book, sometimes she’ll draw a bit or listen to music, but today she just sits, looking at the overgrown basil plants she used
to water every day and smiling softly as the thin spring breeze brushes against her skin. She picked her college this morning, and she hasn’t told her family and friends yet but she knows she’ll be moving across the country to a place where she knows no one and where no one knows her. She’s been waiting for this for years now––she has been
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itching to shed the suppressive skin of the suburbs, and has felt too big for her surroundings for a while––but then why, at this moment, does she want to feel small again? This garden was home to her when she read Junie B. Jones in Justice jean shorts, when she had braces and frizzy hair, when she accidentally shaved off half her eyebrow because she thought that maybe it’d make her look more like the older girls. It gave her a place of her own, a place to dream, a place where no one would ever assume she was too young to know what she was thinking about. In just a couple months she’ll come home to wonder what her mother had planted this season, if she had planted anything at all. Her physical presence
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Console and Control
WRITER: Riley Card LAYOUT & ARTWORK: Jenna Pearlstein
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They were his friends there. They played a lot of Gin Rummy, and a bit of BS. The aging sports betting addict, the non-binary anxious cutter, the mother with extra friends. Sometimes, they made keychains out of teensy-tinsy beads. I used to wonder why beads were allowed, but shoelaces weren’t. Seemed like there wasn’t much of a difference to me. Did he seem different? Yes, in some ways. There was the new key chain, the shoelace-less shoes (purple slides, to be precise), the soft skin where a beard used to linger like a shield. Maybe that was it: there was a new vulnerability. The Gin Rummy cards were on the table now. I could see a card peeking out from the snapped-shut tunnel console. The corner was white like printing paper. A clean slate. We turned left. What was there left to say between us? There was nothing I could think of. The car was silent. I fidgeted in my seat, suddenly aware of my hands tucked beneath my legs, my shoes dangling before the food-stained carpet and the way I started to hold my breath. Only sometimes I smelled the rain. And the cigarettes. I could never forget how he put the car in park and took one out. I watched. The smoke left in O’s from his mouth like a moan long held in. Maybe held in too long, maybe not long enough. I became aware of my hands again, folded beneath my thighs. My face flushed. He did not watch my face as he flipped open the glove compartment. I thought about how much thought he might put
into this. Our first drive after all those months of phone calls and please don'ts and I love yous and I’m worrieds. After months of Gin Rummy and beading keychains and sessions about ghosts. Was I a ghost to him now? Our breath fogged the glass like the touch of Casper. The cigarette haze hung in the air, swirled. My stomach dropped. The song ended. Silence.
THE DRIVEWAY
T
he air held the scent of wet asphalt and soaked football fields. I was nervous. I was never nervous before. My fingers drummed the hard plastic ridge just before the window. I wondered whose job it was at the car company to design those little bumps that marked the ridge before the window. They say the devil is in the details, after all. He played J. Cole’s Pride is the Devil, but it should have been Wet Dreamz. It used to be Wet Dreamz, and then it went and rained, and the storm passed. The storm passed but still the electricity remained. I kept glancing at the place where his jawbone met his ear bone (or whatever that last bone is). It used to be covered in beard before they made him shave it off.
He pulled out an offering from the tunnel console: Reese’s Pieces. He apologized; the thought was there, even if I was allergic. And I blushed, flustered. I told him it was okay. Everything was going to be okay. Ok, so the card was not for me. It was the printer-paper card I gave him for Easter. I recognized the ink-smudged pink font left from months (many months) before. Before I could touch it again, the console slammed shut. I shut my eyes and tried not to cry. But I did. Fat teardrops tumbled down my cheeks onto the stained carpet floor. I was a sloppy crier . He hugged me, crying silently, proud, raining. I told myself the reign of his control in the console of my mind was like a car placed in park, engine turned off, car un-ignited. Silence was peaceful. I believed that the fear so long trapped in my heart could be forgotten. Crumpled it up like an old piece of paper. Burned. Released. The cigarette burned down to the butt. I noticed a stray ash mark on my sneaker when I hopped out the passenger side onto the wet asphalt next to the soaked football field. I was nervous. And not for him. Now, for once, I thought about myself.
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