Something

    She looked at me again with her doll eyes and with her dull mouth said, “I just don’t see why we need…” I wanted someone with a defined jaw bone. The skin under her mouth fell to her collarbone, creating a sluggish chin.

    Some would call her beautiful, I just called her Michelle. Her resemblance to the actress Michelle Williams afforded me the luxury of forgetting her Christian name. As she talked, I noticed the ridge between her upper lip and the crest of her nose vanished when she dramatically pursed her lips to make an “ooh” sound, forming a flat flap of flesh, exposing her gums and whitish teeth. The pink on her lips reminded me of raw chicken.

    “—agree, right?” I didn’t answer and the car remained silent until she parked and the brakes squealed. “Listen, can’t you just tell her…” A sickly color vein pulsed as her neck skin was dragged by her smacking lips, like the gills of a fish on a hook shuttering open and close.

    I wanted to tell her that I didn’t care, that she was talking to a wall. A wall that didn’t care about Michelles. For the sake of conversation, I kept my mouth shut. Brow furrowed slightly, her eyes began to search for contact with mine. When they met, I only noticed her mind swimming, searching for a memory to help conjure up fake tears. Her pupils dilated when she floundered upon some past dead pet, or perhaps the inevitable death of her current ones. Unlike sincere tears, her chin didn’t quiver, but, I thought, that could be because she has no chin to quiver. She leaned forward and pulled back twice, like a novelty drinking bird toy, obviously waiting for a response. “Well?”

    “Remember that gift you gave me for our one week? That hippie shell that was suppose to absorb my agony if I had it in my pocket?”

    “I gave you a stone, not a shell.” As quickly as her frustration dissipated with the mention of something sentimental, it flooded back in return at this mistake.

    “That explains it. Well, that’s certainly something,” pulling out an abalone shell from my pants pocket. And there I was thinking that karma, aura, magic wasn’t real. When we first met, she had told me that all objects were designed to hold energies that either repelled, attracted, expelled or absorbed. In the car, as she buried her eyes in her hands, smudging mascara on the base of her thumbs, I wondered what energy the car had. Or if, as she said, all objects had energies, did the manufacturers of the car take this into account when gathering materials to build? Did the carburetor repel anger and the steering wheel attract it? What if the pistons expelled lust and the wheels absorbed sexuality? Michelle’s shoes were made of black leather, but the leather car seats were gray. Did colors matter? The disarray of energies cycling through the car like the stale air conditioning made me dizzy until I remembered I didn’t subscribe to “‘new’ age” thinking.

    “What do tears even mean?” through blackened fingertips. I asked if I could drive us home, unconsciously doubtful of what grabbing the steering wheel might exorcise. The brakes squealed, but I was unsure if it wasn’t just Michelle trying to get attention.

* * *

    The night before, she had confessed the first thing she noticed was the abundance of hair covering my arms and legs. Body hair showed vulnerability and openness, she had said. Were my eyebrows vulnerable? The strands of hair on my big toe did often seem susceptible, I wanted to say. That next night in the car I wondered if it wasn’t true, noticing the blonde strands stemming from her arms, only visible by reflecting the fluorescent street light. They occurred to me as something crystalline, fragile. I didn’t want to lean over and comfort her for fear of breaking them off.

    Emily, or Emma, or was it Rachel? …The girl I was with the night before had shaved her legs. My caress had been met with biting stubble, like my tongue licking below my lips after dinner. She tasted just as salty. When Michelle forced her lips upon mine in the car, to appeal to my male understanding, I recognized the saltiness from her tears and was stirred. Emily, or Emma, or was it Michelle? …Girl, last night, had tasted like artificial, cherry-flavored lip gloss. Michelle was sweet and salty, like a potato chip, I thought. How many calories were in a kiss? Girl’s lips had sat stagnant against mine, waiting for me to grab hold of the back of her neck and push myself against her. As I remembered my inability to act with Girl, Michelle had grabbed a handful of my hair tight enough that I could feel the roots being tugged, like plucking weeds, while still pushing my head against her chest. It was something of a hug, I supposed.

    The girl before Michelle, her name was Michelle, a raven-haired, small-framed, beauty when her mouth was closed, would never have done this to me. Not that I didn’t want to do it to her, but tears and grasps had meant something to me once. When she cried, I felt as if all events in my life had lead up to that single instance of disappointment I had brought upon her. When we tugged at each others bodies, it was like the tugging of souls, I would tell her. Both Michelles had found it pathetic. I wanted to be their savior, Michelle from her goth-like woes and Michelle from her counterfeit, feigned beliefs and cries for attention. I thought they should save me too and Michelle had wanted to. I was never sure which Michelle.

    One night, later, in a different car, Michelle had let me go from an identical embrace. “I don’t think we should see what…” She had already unlocked the car door and I was opening it. As I walked to my front door, I heard a squeak and wished it was a squeal. Next to my Hide-a-Key rock, I noticed a rounded, luminescent green stone. Recognizing it as that energy absorbing gift, I picked it up and rolled in around in my fist. I aimed for the windshield, went inside, ate chips.