I was always riding around with girls, their cars like our lives in various states of disrepair. There were three sisters from another town who always picked me up together. We'd cruise back roads throwing empty beer bottles out the windows.

All their names rhymed with different flowers.

All their dreams were one-hit wonders.

Next there was B. who sold pills she stole from her mother and M. who took any pill you gave her. I don't know what they wanted with me, those girls. I never kissed any of them. Except K., who said she'd had a kid when she was fourteen but didn't know where he was now. I said, "I'm him. I'm that kid." I said, "Mom?" Then I kissed her and she disappeared before my eyes forever.

All I could do was drive her car back to her parents' house. No one asked any questions. I decided to never ride in a car with another girl ever again. That lasted a week. This was all after high school. The world had yet to crack open. I was still looking for the keys to a different life and those girls wanted wings that worked. Loneliness then was as simple as a lipsticked cigarette butt in a car's ashtray or the strip of light on a dashboard tuner glowing wanly like God's mail slot. They all helped me, those girls, and I think I helped them. I just don't know how or with what.


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