by Irene Westcott
Once I wanted to understand football. Turnovers. Tight ends. Two-minute drills. So I asked a boy I knew to explain it to me. Blue light spilled from the television and clung to our skin; thousands of people called out to us. Defense! they shouted.
Pay attention, he said. This is the first down.
What’s a down? I asked and scooted closer.
A down is a like a chance. You get four chances to go 10 yards.
Chances––now those were things I understood. After all, I’d taken my share of them. Driving too fast without a seat belt. Leaving my door unlocked all night. Taking this boy’s earlobe between my lips. I sucked it a little, kneaded it gently with my teeth.
The boy I really wanted was in Texas, 1,174 miles away. That’s 2,066,240 yards––a long way to go for a slim chance.
See this? he said. It’s called a “substitution.”
I found a salty-sweet place behind his ear and let my tongue slip from it down to his collarbone.
Pay attention, he said. This is important.
Sometimes loneliness can roar like a crowd, spurring you forward. Forward, forward.
I freed the buttons on my shirt, then did the same for him.
Pay attention, I said. This is important.
Irene Westcott wishes she were back in Virginia with the cows.
