Somehow, she’s perpetually out of gas. She takes the red can from her garage and makes the three miles trek to the gas station. The walk is familiar to her— through the neighborhood where she grew up, past a baseball field where once, her father played intramural softball on Thursday nights. She waves to the people she passes, stops to pet the dogs on the way.
On Thursday nights, during softball season, she’d come to all the games. Often, her mother was out of town on business from Wednesday on, and she and her father spent the weekends together. She remembers the joy she felt each time he made a hit, caught a ball, anything. She remembers walking home together, hand in hand along the unetched sidewalks. How much she liked the crickets and the weeds.
And then, the season ended, and her mother continued the trips. She’d sit on her father’s lap in the dark living room and he’d sip a beer, and they’d watch television. He’d ask her if she could keep secrets. She always said she could, and she did, even when she knew better.
When her mother came home, she never said a word about what happened while she was away. Her father winked at her at the dinner table, over yams, and she tried her best to wink back. They were partners in crime. Secret spies. She liked it.
At the gas station, she fills the can and talks to Herb, the guy behind the counter with the baseball hat. They talk about weather. About whether or not she’ll be able to lug the gas can home.
“I think I’ll manage,” she says. Herb has seen her manage before. This gas can pilgrimage is a regular occurrence. Walking back, she feels her cell phone vibrate in her pocket. She puts the can down, shuffles in her pocket to retrieve it, though it’s too late. She waits a moment, then checks the message and hears her father’s scratchy voice. He is not the man he was. He’s better now, though he’s dying. Voice scratching, he tells his daughter he loves her and he hopes to hear from her soon. She never calls.
When she gets home, she takes the gas can into her kitchen. She strips down to flesh, folds the clothes neatly on the chair. Next, she pours the contents all over her naked body and puts her thumb and forefinger on the gas stove once again, purses lips, decides which way to turn it.
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