He offers you a beer right out of the case—the cardboard ripped open on one corner, lukewarm cans stacked inside—and you take it, because he's him and because you're you and not taking it would seem stuck up or ungrateful, perhaps even impolite, and you are none of those things; in fact, you are nothing if not accommodating, some might even say a go-with-the-flow kinda gal—yep, that's you, up for anything, even your first beer unrefrigerated, and that's the thing: you can't tell anyone it's your first beer because nineteen is way too old to have never had a drink before and you can already tell by the way he cracks his open and drinks half of it in one gulp that this is decidedly not his first beer and probably not even his tenth or twelfth, but that's okay because you are perfectly capable of acting normal and casual about this; it's hardly even a party after all, just eight people, so you lean into his side sweetly and don't think about how little you know about him and this apartment as you bring the can to your lips.

And it's not that it's bad. Just not what you expected. Maybe you'd like it more if it were cold. He puts a heavy arm around your shoulder. You take another sip. There's a metallic bite to it, almost like copper.

(Copper like pennies on train tracks, placed Abe-side up and glinting in the sun, spaced out evenly, waiting, growing hot on the metal while you and your brother crouched in the tall grass, waiting too—for the rumble, the approach—then you both covered your faces with your small hands in case the pennies shot out like shrapnel, and listened for the sharp ding but stayed still until the rushing suck of air around you ceased with the last rumbling car. Then: the hunt. Starting on alternate sides, you combed through gravel with sticks until you found them—smooth and flat, with Abe barely recognizable. Later, showing your compressed treasure to your mother, you were told of trains derailed by coins and called reckless.)

You think of this as you drink, whether it was true or something your mother said to scare you away from playing near the tracks, to keep you safe. You look up at this boy, laughing with his arm still hooked around your neck, and your eyes catch on the one lazy unshaved hair sticking out from his throat. You wish you'd driven your own car. You wish your beer was cold. You feel both too old and too young to be where you are.

.

Read CPM's postcard.





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