American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 127

109

A L L Y W H I T E Tongue Thruster,
acrylic and collage on panel, 10 x 10 inches

FICTION

reasonable you are, and how smart. I can’t think of better compliments.”
We had reached the last traffic light before my house, the one
with the dysfunctional sensor. So many nights, Jack and I had
watched cars passing infinitely from the other direction, the light
never changing to let us through. I didn’t mind the wait because it
meant a few extra moments with Jack, a few extra moments before
going home and finding my mother snoring on the couch, where
she often fell asleep, quite early, exhausted from long days doing
customer service for Telecorp, and waking her, trying to convince
her to go to her bed, where she’d sleep better.
“What’s the matter here?” Mrs. Larkin said, drumming the
steering wheel anxiously. “What the heck?”
She flashed her headlights, and the light blinked to green. She
drove up across from my house, put the car in idle.
“Get some rest,” she whispered, patting my knee. “We’ll see you
soon.”