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First time fucked, you pull out of suburbia, the evangelical church now ringed free in neon. You can sense it is some sort of beginning, but you are not sure of the direction. You call an Indian friend as you drive home. The talk is easy, almost girlish in its give and take. You decide to meet for papads and beer. A couple jogs free past your car at the freeway on-ramp, the woman’s blond ponytail bouncing. The two of them appear confident. Do they never court disappointment? Under the bright street lamps you notice that their calves are smooth and well formed. Pumping. You drive to a Jack In the Box, some place anonymous. Bending over the sink you splash your face. Drying your hands, you read the graffiti on the toilet seat, the angled scrawl like the camp sign in a jungle movie. You walk back into the fluorescence. The restaurant is swirling with flying and dive-bombing bugs, a cloud that is harmless but thick, and the few customers are ducking and waving but no one is leaving, and a Hispanic girl, looking apologetic behind the counter, is handing out wet napkins so the customers can swab their tabletops.
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