The Yahara Journal 2020 edition

UNDERNEATH THE NIGHT’S SKY: A SEA-SALT BREEZE Victoria Lowery

“Chick,” the sound of a lighter sparks up a Newport 100 cigarette. The dense smoke slowly creeps out, filling the bright-red Toyota Prius. “Ugh, crack a window,” Victoria mutters under her breath, gagging at the burnt stench that’s enveloped in her mouth. Her best friend, Roy, turns his head and laughs. Roy was a peculiar man, caught up in the throes of youth and rebellion. The top layer of his hair is dyed jet black, lazily swooping it all on the top of his head, and the complete underneath was shaved. He is slightly overweight from his lack of exercise and love of beer, and always wears loud-colored clothing, flaunting his unique style. No matter how strange his look progresses, Victoria loves him anyways. Her love grows more and more as he learns to express himself. When he was a child, the only thing he did was make other people happy, at the expense of his own happiness. He never stood up for himself or expressed himself the way he wanted to, but Victoria got to watch him grow into a man who deserved to put himself first, to scream his personality from the top of his lungs. His uniqueness is the epitome of strength – a man not hiding himself from the world but becoming the embodiment of his resolves. In a world like this, expressing himself, is the mightiest feat.

Roy’s soft-green eyes peak out through his thick framed glasses at Victoria, “When are you going to get over me smoking,” he asks jokingly.

Victoria shakes her head and laughs. “Don’t smoke yourself to death,” she says mockingly, wagging her finger at him.

Fourteen hours deep into this car ride from Wisconsin to Galveston, Texas, and Roy’s almost smoked a whole a pack, cigarette after cigarette. “I’m going to go crazy if I hear that damn lighter flick again,” Victoria thinks, tension building in her shoulders. They pull up to a Valero gas station, a gas station they’ve never seen nor heard of before. The gas station had a soft-blue sign out front with Valero spelled chaotically on it in white, and the lettering looked like it had been stolen from a ‘90s dance-exercise VHS tape. Victoria jumps out of the cramped Prius, stretching her entire body, feet to the ground and hands touching the sky. Her body sings out in relief as every vertebra in her back cracks, and her legs un-cramp. The cement blocks on her shoulder’s dissipate as she rolls her shoulders back.

As they enter the retro gas station, they notice blue streaks of color are painted on the white walls, and electric hot-pink jagged lines shoot through them.

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