Nationalization
Jay Robinson
He wore dew-soaked flip flops, took the dirt roads. Toes caked sugary brown. In the distance: an eternity of corn tassels, a water tower with a name on it he couldn’t read even if he tried. If he stood ten feet away and wasn’t hungover. But he knew what it said. And the humidity was visible. Waves of it. A constant throbbing. He arrived at a fork. Could you call it a crossroads? But he wanted to escape the demands of metaphor. And he didn’t like either direction. Into town or away from it. Both led to the same place. He wanted to go backwards to a year ago. Blue ceiling of cigarette smoke. Laughter. Light from a television. But he stood in the middle of an unnamed road. Cicadas all around. His sweat smelled like wheat, and he could still taste her on his tongue. Like talcum powder. Zinc.
He wore dew-soaked flip flops, took the dirt roads. Toes caked sugary brown. In the distance: an eternity of corn tassels, a water tower with a name on it he couldn’t read even if he tried. If he stood ten feet away and wasn’t hungover. But he knew what it said. And the humidity was visible. Waves of it. A constant throbbing. He arrived at a fork. Could you call it a crossroads? But he wanted to escape the demands of metaphor. And he didn’t like either direction. Into town or away from it. Both led to the same place. He wanted to go backwards to a year ago. Blue ceiling of cigarette smoke. Laughter. Light from a television. But he stood in the middle of an unnamed road. Cicadas all around. His sweat smelled like wheat, and he could still taste her on his tongue. Like talcum powder. Zinc.