Open with the two-lane highway. The ice truck and the ice. Your elbow resting on the driver side window. Zoom in on the toned forearm. The goldenrod rushing by. Missy, our audience can see you now. Show them the gas station delivery where a drunk lady screams about your good looks because there’s no original way to say a man is beautiful, and the lady really did scream. Our audience will believe us and they won’t. People this lovely are only in films. No one with lips this pillowy needs to deliver ice. And here you are, lifting bags and saving up for a weekend in Memphis at the Motel 6. There’s no time for dialogue about class or gender identity. No room to signal that your time with goldenrod is limited. Your time awake is limited. Look how awake you are. How the facial bones move with perfect alignment under the dermis. Cut to the motel, leaving its light on for your red Bronco. Now the motel’s dark interior. Now the bed nearest the window where you and a just-out-of-high-school date can finally make contact after years of parental-imposed silence. I’m sorry. This film can’t access your interior. Your date is the only one directing her memory. Your date is me. My memory is the shower scene, already zoomed in on your face. Open your eyes again. Look directly at me. Hold the camera’s gaze through the falling water as if this were our last frame. Missy, this is our last frame. Body is the only good word for body. I’m afraid of home’s hunger for yours, but off camera the interstate is waiting and my lines are let’s go.

Originally published in Split Lip Magazine