Send to a Friend
			Printer Friendly Format
			Leave Feedback
			Read Feedback
			Nerve RSS

Once Sonia gets going on 95 North, once she is definitely out of the city, it is all she can do not to slam on the brakes and turn back, or hit the gas pedal and go 100 miles an hour. She feels extreme. She's free. Every now and then, she lets out a squeal of delight and fear.

As the day wears on and she drives further and further into the New England countryside, past the suburbs, deep into hilly, tree-laden Massachusetts, she's struck by how gorgeous the world really is. The sun hangs deep and yellow in the painfully clear sky, the trees sparkle every shade of orange and red. Autumn in the country. And she's alone at last. No crying babies demanding she try and stick a bottle in their mouths while she's driving. No toddlers saying, "I'm bored. Are we there yet?" Nobody throwing up from carsickness. No one demanding to stop because they have to pee so badly they're about to wet the car seat.

Except that Sonia has to pee. And even if there are no children in the car — she glances into the rear-view mirror just to make sure; nope, no children — there are their car seats, staring back at her angrily, accusingly empty.

The miles accumulate. The traffic is sparse now. Darkness begins settling in. Sonia turns on the lights, and the road spreads out gray and weakly lit before her. Funny how lights on a car don't feel important until it's deep into the night. She's been listening to CDs and the radio, and now her ears hurt. She turns down the music. A green sign saying "Rest Stop, Three Miles" presents itself. Good, she thinks. She can make it.

And she does. But barely. She parks the Passat as close as possible and rushes into the restroom, which is as nasty and smelly as can be. She sits on the toilet seat without thinking or looking; immediately, her ass feels wet. Her wet, cold butt sticking to the toilet seat fuels the self-hatred festering inside of her. She is disgusting and incompetent. But she is peeing and feels some relief. It dawns on her that this is the first of many public bathrooms she will encounter.

Afterward, she manages a decent clean-up job. There is toilet paper — hallelujah! — and even warm water in the sinks. She stares at

herself in the mirror. She sticks out her chest. She has the pregnancy glow. The moist skin, the Mona Lisa smile all pregnant women get — not a real smile, but it seems like one to the outside world. She sticks her tongue out and leaves the restroom.

It is a beautiful night. Even here, next to the highway. It really is the edge of darkness now. The air is crisp and cool and her nipples harden under her tank top. And even though cars whiz by on the highway occasionally, the rhythmic noises of crickets and birds overwhelm the traffic. Sonia sits on top of her car, delicately though, as it feels a bit warm. She folds her hands in her lap and breathes slowly for a minute, her eyes closed. I'm here now, she thinks, that's all. Nothing else matters.

There are a handful of other cars. A few spots away from her Passat, with no cars in between, is a green Chevy pickup, with a young, dark-haired man leaning against it, holding a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette.

Sonia immediately likes him. His hair is dirty, long but not too long, a haircut gone neglected. His pants are tight, but not painfully so. He has tattoos.

"You're staring at me," he says.

"I'm sorry?" says Sonia.

"You're staring at me." He smiles.

"Can I bum a cigarette?" Sonia hasn't smoked since college.

"Sure."

Sonia walks over to him, and every muscle feels tight and strange, as if walking were something her body had never done before. He taps out a Camel filter. Up close, she notices things about him that weren't evident from two parking spots away. He has that reddish-tan skin that has a bit to do with the sun, and much to do with cigarettes and alcohol. He might not be that young. He seems decadent, reckless, a bit jaded.

"I haven't had a cigarette in a long time," she says.

"Are you pregnant?"

Sonia looks down at her bump. She feigns surprise. "Look! I am pregnant!"

"Whew. For a minute there, I thought I'd made a mistake." He has an accent that Sonia can't place. "That's no good, saying a woman looks pregnant when she's not." He laughs, looking away.

But quickly he's leaning closer, flicking his lighter at the cigarette in her mouth. Sonia doesn't inhale, just holds the dry smoke in her mouth. It's too much. Her hand shakes as she takes the cigarette from her lips.

"Where are you from?" she asks.

"Hingham, the south shore of Boston. I was visiting my dad. He lives in Connecticut. Where are you from?"

"From Brooklyn," she answers, and then wonders if this is the time where she starts lying about where she's from. Or if she's pregnant. Let them think she's fat. Who cares? Guys fuck fat chicks. Some guys do. Or if she's married. The hand with the cigarette, her left hand, sports a wedding ring. She wonders if she should take it off. Hell, guys fuck married women all the time. In fact, Sonia decides, many may prefer to. Perhaps the man Sonia is looking for prefers married women — if she's looking for men, which she's not quite sure about. Is she looking for men? For what? For laughs? She is looking at this man now. He is beautiful to her. The cigarette and his arms and his accent and everything about him, his truck, everything, makes her feel weak, light-headed.