he told me a story
Caleb Tankersley
e had a hole in his chest the size of a grenade, of something I could have cupped in my palm. Tiny valleys slithered in and out of it, stretching from his armpit to just above a dark nipple. It collected beads of sweat like a trough. My fingers ran along the bottom, scraping the coarse skin dry. I licked every drop as he sat silent, looked away.
He told me a story about whiskey behind the wheel. About killing a father of three. About the hot pipe that seared him. About the dead man’s wife, how her hand touched his gently, her smile curved above the scar that would become the hole. About her forgiveness. About cheapness and sweat.
I focused on the scar, the mesh of skin and space moving back and forth, closer and farther away. He liked it hard and angry, wanted his love to sear me. But then he’d cup my face in his palm, be gentle, surprise me.
H
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