Latex Allergies and Black Sabbath T-Shirts: A Ghost Story

Out of all the dumb decisions I’ve made, this by far has to be the dumbest bullshit decision of all dumb bullshit decisions. I want to love him—I do—but right now, all I feel is a disbelieving resentment towards him and reprehension towards myself. How could I have been so stupid?

On the dark, wooded side road of 65, Chris Sandoval and I sit in a humid, leather-wrapped, ugly little Grand Prix that his grandfather “fixed up.” The car “stalled.” I knew we should have met at the theater like I suggested; but no, he insisted that he pick me up like a gentleman. What a load of shit.

God, I’ve been so captivated by him since day one of meeting him in the chat room—by his strong jaw under the short beard in the photos and his typing speed and his cajoling words and his appetizing voice over the phone. We had talked for months about everything, until he finally said he’d love to meet me, to get to know me better. I agreed. I wanted to see the side of himself he bragged about. He said he’s the best at Battleships and that he makes the best sushi. I wanted to see if those are true. So, I said yes, you can pick me up. And really, I wanted him to.

But now here I am, 10 o’clock on a Friday night on the side of the road with the man I only just met an hour ago. He’s a lot taller than I imagined, and his arms are a lot wider. I shouldn’t have lied to my friends about knowing him—we've been friends for years, I said, from college. And they believed me. God, why would they believe me? Between the two of them, they should know I don’t go on dates, let alone to see a sci-fi film. Now, because of their lack of incredulity, I’m going to be dead and buried in the woods somewhere. He could be a serial killer. I don’t know; I never asked.

Our conversation lulled a while ago—after ranging from the weather to his grandfather’s car hobby to future plans (him getting his master’s in engineering at some college I forgot the name of, and me posted in some artist gallery far, far away from here, with him, I said. If he’d like that.)

After five minutes of trying to turn the engine over, he stops and leans back into his seat, sweat beading on his forehead and under his nose.

“Fuck man, it’s hot in here,” he says, pulling at the collar of his dark gray button-up. He loosens two buttons from his neck, exposing the top of a black undershirt. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, displaying two armfuls of artful tattoos. From the side, he looks down and over at me with hazel eyes, roaming top to bottom, lingering at my chest and legs. I had thrown on a Black Sabbath t-shirt and short denim overalls thinking that there are enough layers and buckles to get through that if something starts, I would have enough time to stop if I changed my mind, yet his eyes are looking through me as if I’m naked. He is looking at me for what I can be to him.

I unbuckle and resist the urge to put my feet up on the seat to get comfortable. I feel useless. I know next to nothing about diagnosing car problems and don’t know the area enough to offer advice. Instead, I just stare at him. I shouldn’t, I know, it’s kind of rude, but I can’t help it. There’s so much potential built into just this one man, and it calls to me like a promising siren of future stability and safety I yearn for.

He doesn’t seem to notice me staring. Instead, he’s trying the ignition again. The car sputters and wheezes and then stops. It won’t turn over. He grunts and hits the wheel, cursing under his breath. His hands grip around the wheel, and he lays his forehead against the top. Some of his pushed back hair fell forward, covering his eyes and exposing little black studs in his earlobes.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he says. He looks defeated. There was an inflection of sincerity in his voice. Maybe I had overreacted earlier. He really can’t be that bad of a guy. Not if he loves Battleships and sci-fi and sushi.

“It’s okay,” I squeak. “I wasn’t really interested in seeing Independence Day anyway. I’m not a huge fan of Bill Pullman.”

“You take that back,” he says. He is facing me now, with his cheek against the wheel. His face plays a hurt pout, but his eyes are gleaming with a teasing smile. “Well, then what are you a fan of?”

“Oh, I’m more of a Robin Williams and Bill Murray kinda gal.”

“No way.”

“Oh, yeah. Give me Jumaniji and Ghostbusters any time of the day. It gets me going.”

He laughs then, an affable and genuine one. It sounds so much better in person. So much richer and real. He turns to me then, that smile on his face. His gaze makes me want to pull him in closer, but before I can, I feel his hand slide over mine—so large and encompassing. He drops it down to my upper thigh and wriggles his strong fingers underneath my overall shorts. At this moment, I contemplate my choices. Location isn’t ideal. I was hoping for something softer, something less humid. I was hoping to be able to take off my Converses and shower afterward. How would we fit? He’s so tall—his hair almost brushes the top of the roof—and there’s no room for me to straddle him with the center console...

I want to say something, to tell him maybe we should wait; I want to do this, but just not here. Tell him that; use those exact words.

I say, “Isn’t this your grandfather’s car?”

“What?” He pulls back a little, flustering. “I mean, yeah, sure, but who cares? I drive it; it’s going to be mine anyway.”

Stupid. I ruined the moment. I didn’t mean to upset him. I don’t want the date to go this way. I put my hand over his and lean over the console to him. I grab at the front of his shirt and try to reach him with my lips to shut him up, to shut the doubts up. He doesn’t need to feel flustered or embarrassed. No, that’s not what I want. I want him to kiss me. And he does. He meets my lips, then pushes me back into my seat, one hand on my thigh and the other on my cheek. Yes, yes, I say, but maybe not out loud. He presses so hard into me. No more thinking. Just shut up. I let him guide our mouths and our hands. The seat collapses back under the both of us; he can’t fit but he tries—he tries so hard—to fit himself on top of me in that tiny leather seat, but only his torso can reach across the center console.

As Chris begins to slither his hands deeper into the sides of my overalls, a sudden crack bursts across the windshield, shattering it into a web of fractured glass. I yelp.

“What the fuck?” He says, snapping back to his seat, a red flush across his face.

I pull my seat up, slowly returning it to its upright position. I sit for a moment, staring at the crack. It sounded like a screech—like a bird. I saw something, Chris, I want to say. I saw a face, but he won't believe me. Hell, I don’t believe me. It was quick. It was a shadow. A bird? Probably.

Chris sits in his own seat with disbelief, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. He’s staring at the crack, just as intensely as I had. His chest is heaving, eyes fluttering. In a quick motion, he grunts a furious scream, throwing his left fist to the side, and landing it on the driver’s side window. The glass shutters under the force.

My own heart beats loud, deafening, pounding into my head. He just punched the window. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him angry—what do I do? I sit as far back into my seat as I can, practically melting into it. Eventually (it feels like) his hands fall into his lap. He slouches forward, head again on the steering wheel.

It comes out so, so softly. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Touch him. Tell him it’s okay—you've seen anger before. It’s understandable. Put your hand on his shoulder.

I don’t.

“What do you think could have broken the windshield?” I say.

“I don’t know…” He shrugs, looking at me with a new sprout of uncertainty, cutting through a confident, concrete guise. “Should I go check?”

I shake my head no.

He nods, “Okay. Do you want to go check?”

“Are you kidding me?” In his moment of doubt, a fury began to spread over me—one that takes hold of the fear that bubbles low in my chest. He’s unbelievable right now. He’s a man. He should go check. What if there’s danger? What would I do? “It’s dark, it’s muddy, and something just cracked your windshield. Why in the absolute hell would you think I’m getting out to go check?”

He shrugs again and gives a nonchalant shake of his head, “Just a thought.”

“Of the many, I’m sure.” I know it’s mean, but I’m not a mean person, really. He just needs a push to get there and go be brave. One of us should check and it’s not going to be me. At my retort, his eye twitches, just once, quickly, as if he’s contemplating the audacity of me. He rolls his eyes. Oh, that eye roll. It stirs something low in me. A breath catches in my chest. I want to see it again—to push that button. But I should probably apologize.

Instead, I lean back in my seat and look in the side mirror, realizing that we are very much alone. I say, “Don’t you think it’s weird that no other cars have come by in a while?”

“There’s a light,” he says, nodding towards the woods, ignoring my observation. I follow his gaze to a white glow peering through the tree trunks. Silhouetted by yellow lines of light, I can make out shapes of statues and headstones. My eyes adjust, and I see that the light is from an outdoor sconce on the side of a shack—like a guard shack, maybe, or a gravedigger’s shed. I can’t really tell.

I shake my head furiously. No fucking way.

“No!” I say, “Don’t tell me there’s a fucking cemetery!”

He laughs at me, an unbelieving chuckle with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay, look,” I justify, “I’m not scared. I’m not. But I’ve avoided zombies this far into my life, and I’m not going to run into them now. That Dawn of the Dead festival last year doesn’t count.”

Chris shrugs and rolls those eyes again, then drums his thumbs against the steering wheel in some sort of nervous tick. He stares out at the cemetery, lips quivering before saying, “Why, uh, why don’t we go check the shack? See if there’s a guard on the... on the graveyard shift.”

His little smirk sends my stomach roiling. “Was that supposed to be a joke?” I say, “In a situation like this?”

“Jokes are best in a situation like this,” he says. “Are you coming or not?”

I shake my head again, “I’d rather die in the car.”

“Suit yourself,” he says as he unbuckles and braces some kind of courage to open the car door. When he does, a cold wind blows into the car, sending chills across my arms. A waft of decomposition flutters in behind it. I shiver. It’s July. It’s July. There is no such thing as a cold wind this time of year, and yet my bare arms are covered in goosebumps. Oh, I don’t like this. Something is out there. I’m safer in the car, right? I stay in my seat and my leg bounces anxiously as I watch Chris step further into the woods. He’ll be back, right?

As I wait, I look around the car at the leather seats and the waxed dashboard. Everything is free of dust and trash and fur (which is astonishing because I saw those pictures with his husky). The car is kept so clean; it feels wrong to breathe so I hold in my breath, afraid to disturb the environment of Chris’s things without his permission. On his mirror, he keeps an oval locket I never noticed before. I shouldn't, but I reach up and click it open. In the depths of it are two photos, one on each side. The left is a young girl and the right a young boy. The boy looks like him. They look like siblings. He never mentioned a sister to me. I want to ask about her, but what if it’s a touchy subject? Would he leave me if I insert myself too far into his life, into his future? Or is he open to the idea of us together past the first date, past a one-night-stand? We’ve talked so much over the last several months, and I was able to consume so much of his life, but never did we get any step further than the first meeting, the first date. Who knows what the future holds, he said. Just gotta see what happens.

Something bubbles in my stomach then—call it fear, call it premonition, but it forces me to call out to him.

“Chris, wait,” I say, my hand opening my own door. “I’m coming.”

Against my conscious will, my body moves to follow him. I don’t want to stay in the car alone—not with the sticky humid seats or the cracked windshield. At this moment, I don’t want to be anywhere without him. I follow him like the light, like some safe security I didn’t know I needed.

The leaves and twigs below us snap and crinkle under each falling step, amplified by the silent ambiance of the woods. Among the conglomeration of decay and rot of fauna and fungi, the humid air carries a sharp, acrid scent. I can only assume it’s from the cemetery. We now stand at the back of it, staring at a couple dozen blank headstones facing East. The light of the shack illuminates only so much in the surrounding area, leaving pockets of looming darkness at the edges of its reach. It’s hard for me to describe the feeling that envelopes me as I stand at the edge of the cemetery. I’ve never been a superstitious person. Nor religious, for that matter. But something is gnawing at me—some unseeing burden weighs on my shoulders, pulling me towards the center where the building sits like a gravitating planet orbiting, swirling, and spiraling out of its own control. I suddenly want answers to questions I never knew I had asked.

First, Chris steps into the invisible boundary of the cemetery, heavily, but now certain—some kind of confidence was gained in the presence of our impending, absolute death. My feelings falter a little about him and about the situation as I watch him stomp through the grass keeping to the sides of the graves and staying on a vague gravel path that leads to the door of the shack. He traverses respectfully through the graves, almost gracefully, in fact. Not a serial killer, after all. No serial killer respects the dead.

We approach the shack and see that it’s in good condition (better than I expected, to be honest). It’s resurrected with multi-colored cobblestone and topped by a shingled roof. A singular square window sits plainly next to the door. I try to peek in through the window, to find the source of that pull, maybe, but between the glare of the sconce and the darkness inside, I can make nothing definitive out except a small, blinking red light in the far back.

He knocks on the door. I didn’t expect an answer, and I’m not sure if he did either. At this distance, it’s clearly a groundskeeper’s shed, smack in the middle of the cemetery. So far away from civilization, I shouldn’t have expected anyone to be out here guarding or caring for the area at night. There isn't really a threat of vandalism; it isn’t that nice of a cemetery. Yet so, so far away. And I am so alone with him. And I am standing right next to him as he squats and jiggles the handle and pries at the lock with something buried between his palm and fingers.

He’s breaking in. I see that, but it does not stop my mouth from asking, “What are you doing?”

He looks up at me with a toothy smile—the one I fell in love with in his photos—as the lock on the door clicks and opens under his touch.

“There’s probably a phone in there,” he says, pushing the door open.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I know this is wrong. I see his intentions. Red flags are waving in my face. Yet some fiendish part of me still wants to know what his weight will feel like on top of me. I want to know what his sweat smells like and how his flesh tastes between my teeth. Against my moral fibers (if any existed at all), I step into the shed after him.

A fluorescent light buzzes overhead, singular and positioned in the center of the ceiling. The shed is relatively clean and orderly, with tools and boxes on shelves and pegboards. While clean, it’s still a shed and small and cramped with a wooden floor. And a phone. His hunch was right. Sitting on a weathered desk with a shitty rolling chair in the back of the shed is a baby blue landline with an “emergency phone numbers” list taped to the right of it.

He looks down at me, grinning, and puts the phone up to his ear. The dial tone roars throughout the shed, and he sets the phone back on the hook.

“I can call for a tow, but we’re going to have to wait for it,” he says, leaning against the desk.

I laugh, partly annoyed, but partly relieved, too, that the immense pressure of impending doom had stopped. This is it. Simple as that. Car breaks down, we call for a tow. Cemetery looks scary, but we walked right through it, didn’t we? No hiccups. No hands plummeting up from the graves to snatch at our ankles. It’s safe, and I’m safe. Safe with him. I look at him, now, locking eyes. He doesn’t waver under my gaze. Sturdy. Confident.

“This was your plan the whole time, wasn’t it?” I ask.

“No,” his face falls, “Why would it be? This would be a terrible plan.”

I nod. No plan, no pressure. No doubts lingered any longer in the back of my mind. I turn from him and bolt the door behind us. Nothing is going to ruin this. No black birds, no zombies. He calls 911 and asks for a tow to be dispatched. He gives them the name of the cemetery, though don’t remember seeing the name of the cemetery on our way in. Easy thing to miss, I suppose.

When I turn back around, Chris is standing right in front of me. So close. He places a loose strand of my short hair behind my ear. I can’t seem to move. My body is shivering, but it’s so warm in here under the light and in his presence. So safe.

My breath comes out in wavering exhales. I have to ask, “Why here?” Of all the places we could go. We could wait, really. Oh, but I don’t want to. Not now, not when this opportunity rests simply here between us. The walk back to the car now felt too far of a walk, too far of a time to wait to have him.

“We have an hour,” he says to me, planting his soft lips on mine. “I promise it wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

Between our kisses, he says something about not having a condom and something about a latex allergy, but I don’t hear him. My mind is dizzy with some aerosol version of his scent overshadowing any clear thoughts that attempt to tell me to stop.

His fingers fumble at the buttons on his shirt, pulling them apart painstakingly slow, but they all eventually come undone like a puzzle we’ve both been trying to figure out all night. Underneath his button-up is a Black Sabbath t-shirt like mine, the tour name loud on the front with a Dehumanizer album cover. He pulls it off over his head with one hand on the back of the neck. A single swoop and it now lays on the floor flat beneath his button-up.

I let him guide me down to the floor, on top of his clothes, and let him take off my own, one overall button at a time. I can’t think while he does this; I can only feel him and his hands over me, sliding my overalls off and then my shirt up, exposing my unconstrained breasts. He kisses down my body and pushes apart my legs.

This is it. This is that pull I felt toward the shed. It was the thought of him and me—us alone together where we couldn’t be interrupted or looked down upon. Kids, they all think, still so young and naïve. Devil-worshipers, they said, with their tattoos and piercings and rock music. It was always something while they knew nothing. There was always something more.

But he takes all of that away. There’s no uncertainty with him, just a clear sense of want he wants. Chris melts into me, his aura merging with mine. I feel the emotion first before I can name it. I admit I was cautious about it. I felt like I was using the word “love” too loosely, too lightly. But no, this has to be real. There is no other way I can explain it as he props himself above me. This is right.

I wrap my arms around his neck, focusing on his movements, but as I do, I can only stare up and out of the singular window of the shed.

And it’s there that I see him watching us. I try to cry out but my throat closes up and my heart races. The bastard found me again. I tell Chris to stop—Jesus Christ, listen to me—but my voice doesn’t come out. My voice is trapped and I’m trapped under Chris. I tap his shoulder quickly, but he doesn’t stop. I look away, unable to bear his gaze any longer, and try to wriggle free, but Chris is so large and so strong and I’m not. I look back to the window and the face is gone. I’m no longer safe. Not when he’s around. I don’t want this right now. Not while I can feel him watching us. A wave of warmth spreads over my face as I feel the pressure of embarrassment rising through me, from my stomach and chest.

I tap Chris again, furiously, this time on his waist.

“Stop, stop,” I say, finding my words. His body lowers heavier onto mine, and his hand slides firmly over my mouth, pinky sitting just below my nose. He continues and I’m so fucking helpless. I try to move, but my shoulders are pinned by his, and his mouth is on my neck, and his hips are on mine. I try to push at his wrist that’s over my mouth, but he presses down hard enough that my teeth are imprinting on the inside of my lips. I try—I really do—to get him to stop. I try to scream, to bite his hand, to knee him, but nothing works. He has me pinned down, and now his face is Chris’s face and I want to vomit. I taste the weed on his breath mingled with cigarettes and Corona. This is not what Chris tastes like.

“Please,” I manage to choke out between his fingers, tears falling on either side of my face.

At this point, I feel his teeth on my earlobe and his hot breath down my neck. He says, “Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”

I can’t do anything but cry then. I just want to go home. I want to go back to the shitty car to before this happened—before he arrived, before the hand, before the threat. I want to love the smell of Chris, the feel of him, but I need to escape because right now this is not Chris. He would never do this.

He pushes down again, brutely, and hisses, “Say it.”

I gag, “I’m yours. Please. I’m yours. Let me go.”

He smiles—God, that fucking smile—and lifts himself up, releasing his hand, and it’s Chris again. His smile falls and tired eyes focus on me, shifting out of some sort of trance. It takes a moment for him to ask, “Why are you crying?”

I saw him. But I can't tell you. He’s here, and I don’t know how, but he is and he can hurt you and it’s all my fault. I should have said no. No, I don’t want to meet you. I can’t have you as much as I want to. I can’t because of him, and he’ll never go away. I can’t make him go away.

Chris stares at me as I bawl into my arms. He waits for an answer, and when I don’t give him one, he falls back onto his heels and throws his hands in his lap, frustrated. “I’m sorry,” he says.

That’s when the window shatters. Shards of glass spray across the room, and Chris grabs me, curling me into his chest. He gasps, angrily. Chris didn’t see it happen as I did—him as a shadow, an enraged aura, his fist breaking the window in an effortless punch (as it always had been so effortless to him).

“Jesus fuck,” Chris says. He then stands, pulling up his pants over his boner, clasping it behind his jeans button. He turns, standing in front of me, shielding me from the window. His back is sliced with small shards of glass still sticking into his flesh. I stare at those glistening shards, wanting to reach my hand up to pluck each of them out and tell him I’m sorry. It’s my fault.

Chris calls out, “Who the fuck is there?”

There’s no answer. Of course, there never is going to be an answer. There isn’t anyone actually there, stupid. He was staring at me, but you didn’t see him. No one ever did. He’s like a hungry shadow, always so gluttonous and hidden behind what he wants you to see.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, wiping tears away with the back of my hands and arms, spreading little black mascara streaks all over them. “I should have told you about him.”

“About who?” Chris turns. His face is scrunched in a mix of confusion and anger and panic.

I shake my head, “I’m so sorry.” He’s going to hurt you and it’s all my fault.

“We’re getting the fuck out of here,” Chris says, looking back at the window again, scanning. He holds out a hand to help me up. I put my overalls back in place and throw on his button-up and he slides his t-shirt over his back as carefully as possible knowing that those shards are only going to dig deeper.

“Let’s go,” he says, then grabs my hand and throws the door open, pulling me behind him as we run back through the cemetery towards the car. I stumble over mounds of graves I didn’t notice before and knock my knee into a crooked headstone. As we run, I feel him behind us. He’s there. He’s somewhere. I turn to look—God, I know I shouldn’t have—and he’s there in the cemetery, staring at me from inside the shed from the shattered window, skulking as he always did.

Suddenly, the car is in front of me, and I’m yanking the handle as the door locks and unlocks and finally it’s open and slamming at my side. I look to my left and Chris is there, turning the key, praying that the engine comes to life. Sputtering, sputtering, wheezing, cough. Nothing. He tries again.

I scream. He's at Chris’s window, mouth gaping, eyes just as black as they always were. He's screaming at us. The window bursts in, scattering more glass. And then his hand is around Chris’s throat, and his head is pressed firmly against the headrest.

I scream, “Let him go!” But no, he doesn’t listen to me. No one really ever does. I try to punch at him, but I can’t seem to hit anything solid. He ignores me and continues gripping Chris’s throat until his face turns purple and his eyes fall into the back of his head. Chris’s body goes limp in his seat, and then he disappears.

At least, I think he did. I do not want to wait to find out. I lean over Chris, open his door, and push him out of the driver’s seat while a stream of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” pours out of my mouth. His body crumbles onto the black pavement, and I try to close the door, but his foot is still in the car. I wrestle it out, then slam the door closed, and turn the key. The car sputters to life. All of the gages and meters light up, and the seatbelt chime dings at me. The headlights burst, beaming onto the highway. He’s there again, staring at me again with his hungry eyes. He mocks me with a grin. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s gone. He needs to be gone.

“Go away!” I scream, pounding my palms against the steering wheel. I smash the accelerator down and something crunches under the tires. And as I run the car into him, his body slams against the grill, rolling onto the hood of the car, and over the side in a chorusing crunch of thin metal. While I do not want to, my eyes flick to the rear-view mirror, and I see Chris's lifeless body in the road, pushed to the center. But he’s gone.

I drive until I come upon the first gas station. I pull into one of the spaces by the door and park. The attendant looks at me from the front windows, craning his head to get a better view. What do I do? I don’t know how to get home from here. I am not going back that way. I can’t. It’s then that everything collapses. I sit in the driver’s seat and cry. I left Chris there. I didn’t want to leave him. God, why do I always have to leave people? Why won’t he just fucking leave me alone? I escaped and yet every corner I turn, every shadow in the distance, and every man I meet, he’s there and he’s mocking me and telling me that I’m his and he’s not letting go. Chris could have been everything he was not.

I’m tired of this. I’m so tired, and I can’t do this anymore. I wipe my tears away with the sleeves of Chris’s shirt and let out a sigh. It’s time to do something.

After a minute, I get out of the car and pause to look at the front of the Grand Prix. I stop and stare at the body-sized dent in the hood. Oh, Christ. I can’t. I turn and continue into the store to ask the attendant for a phone. He’s young and curly-haired and freckled, and he stares at me for a moment with light brown eyes before handing over a cordless phone accompanied by a concerned look. I tell him thank you and take it.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

Jesus, why do they always have to ask? I try to smile at him, to say, yes, I am just fine. But my face contorts from a smile to a frown to a sob. Walking away, I catch a glance of myself in the sunglasses mirror. My hair is wildly messy and black mascara is running down my cheeks, leaving watery streaks all the way down to my chin. Chris had kissed off any lipstick I had applied. It would have been nice, really, to get to see him in the morning. I yearn for something I never had with him, but can’t you imagine? Us cuddled on his couch watching Saturday morning cartoons with fresh pancakes and orange juice? I choke on a laugh.

Then I pause, whisking those thoughts away. I contemplate the weight of the phone in my hand. Who do I even call? No one would answer me at this time of night. No one would listen to me unless they saw him like I did. I’m also currently in the possession of a car that isn’t mine and wearing the button-up of a dead man. Yes, officer, I could say, it’s technically a stolen car. But it’s Chris’s. And he’s gone now. I didn’t even get to meet his family. It would have been so simple, wouldn’t it? To just be accepted into a new life. But fucking Christ, what good does it do to think on it now? I need to get back to him. I need to bury him. I need to bury all the dead.

I hand the phone back to the cashier, undialed, unsoiled. Then I turn down the short aisles of snacks and convenience store-priced home goods. I grab a few things. Of course, I do. And then I lug them around the store with them tucked under and balanced on top of my left arm while I use my right to touch things—to touch everything. I need to know what is real, so I run my fingertips along the polypropylene chip bags and the plastic toilet paper wrap hard enough that it makes a squeak. Then I reach the fridges and open a door and touch every single cold drink deliberately and intimately before seizing a Cherry Coke bottle by the neck and hauling the things to the counter to pay.

The ruddy cashier looks at the stuff, then he looks at me. I dare him to say something. I dare him to ask. I wait for it. I want it. Say it. Say it, now.

Beep. He scans the things. One by one, he grabs each item as if they’re individually dangerous. They’re not, I assure him with a glance and a smile. This does not persuade him, but he scans anyway, because, after all, what else is he going to fucking do? He finishes scanning, and then I pay, and then I haul all of my stuff to Chris’s car and organize it by potential need. The Coke is first, obviously, and that sits between my warm thighs to make it a drinkable temperature. Then in the passenger seat I separate everything—tall, black household trash bags, Gorilla duct tape (very expensive at gas stations, actually), fresh set of driver gloves, gallon of drinking water, set of 3 tie-dye colored handkerchiefs, a small container of Clorox clothes bleach, and the largest bag they had of teriyaki beef jerky.

Satisfied with the haul, I turn the ignition and back out of the gas station. I drive back. Which, oddly enough, feels like a shorter distance than on my way there. But as I approach the cemetery, I notice the roads again were quiet. Abandoned. I turn the brights on. They flash and illuminate the entirety of the road in front of me where I see Chris’s body, unmoved. And just behind him is… him. Unscathed. Staring at me. Smiling at me. He knew I’d come back.

My knuckles turn white gripping the steering wheel and my shoulders tense. I rev the engine. It’s time. It’s time to bury the fucking dead.