Two Tissues and a Breathmint

Two Tissues and a Breathmint

His hand catches mine as I move it to put my cheap stainless steel spoon down. I  hide my jump at his contact by taking a long sip of greasy-filmed, overheated coffee also proving helpful to chase down the bile that had slowly slunk it way up in my throat when I looked at his shiny eyes, greasy forehead, and thin lips. His eyes had that usual hint of self-hatred, his smile had a plastic quality, in anticipation of latex. There was three-day-old stubble along his abundant jaw. I count the black, curled chest hairs poking from the top of his greasy undershirt. Counting them always seems to distract me from the immediate task, which approaches all to quickly and lasts altogether too long. As if by concentrating in them, I can't immediately focus on the...rest... of him, the rest of the hairs.
          "I'm glad we understand each other," he says assuredly. Well I'm sure he is glad that we ‘understand' each other. They always seem to be. One was apologetic, but he turned out just like the rest of them in the end. So proud of themselves, always. I still can't fathom why they should be, it's like when you hunt down an animal with a gun- does the prey ever get a chance to fight back? Because I know I can't, I shouldn't. Good job to you, all the same, though.
           My hand is cold now, and I realize he's moved his. It makes a squeaking noise as his sweaty palm slides over the table to where his black plastic windbreaker lay. The sharp nylon neon sheen zips and protests as his hand grips the fabric and removes it from the chair. I listen closely in an attempt to distract myself once more, and I wish I could make the same sounds when they start to...
           I reach into my pocket, the little game of generosity I always play with them continues again today. He grabs my arm as I stand up, and he drops the coins on the table. I flinch at his touch, it just happens to coincide with the contact of nickel on formica from a distance. As always, the initial contact puts me into a trance, I lose any acute sensations in anticipation of what my body knows is coming next.
           I flinch involuntarily as he guides me out of the restaurant. My arm wants to be wrenched away, it's twitching at every small pressure he makes, but I can't do it. I have to bear his sweaty palm seeping through my sweater sleeve, but I shiver all the same. Sometimes, they ask me if I feel cold, I always just say no and try to stop shaking. I never pull my arm away- It wouldn't be polite, they always say. And some, though, fighting and struggling makes some of them- worse. It's just easier and faster, this way. The path of least
resistance.
            We climb into his old dusty pickup truck, the kind with one overly large single-piece front seat, the kind you don't need the key to start but no one would dream to take anyway. The seat is just like a couch. It becomes easier when I consider it a couch, I can imagine there was some pretense of affection that way. It smells of long drives, cheap whiskey, dust, diesel and other girls like me. It has one of those pink ineffectual hanging-from-the-mirror tree-shaped air fresheners.
I see four shaky lines on my side, traced out of the dull dashboard's dusty coating. I briefly ponder their circumstance, I see they were put there with a lot of force, and realize they look familiar. I see myself doing the same thing so many times before, in a hope some illusion of ‘passion' will just make it end faster. Just make it end. I wrap my arms tightly around myself, and quietly watch the dusty snowy road go by- conversations at this point never end well.
            My chest jerks empty as the truck negotiates a semi-sliding stop, impressive in a sad way as though he has to impress me, as though I'm doing this for no other reason than him. I wonder if they just like to forget that this isn't being done for any enjoyment or fulfillment on my part. I want to ask one of them, one day, but I run the risk of getting injured if I don't seem interested, if I don't make it seem ‘real'. The engine's dull roar empties from the air, and all I can hear is breathing. Next, all I can hear is the way his breathing  changes, just a fraction. It gains a ragged texture, it's tempo increases. It no longer has rhythm.
             Once again, vomit displaces my control. I wonder if I could somehow manage to muster enough to fill the cab, to mysteriously drown us both, to get into all the papers and see if anyone will believe it happened, but decide against it. I open up the door, and feel some release in the bitterness. My throat hurts, and my eyes water. A tear falls from my eye, and into the puddle below. I pull back my hair, so it doesn't get dirty. They usually like hair. I stare at the puddle, and feel his hand on my arm a second time, so I turn and close the door.
             He hands me two tissues and a breathmint, the tissues coming from a box under the driver's seat. The box is almost empty which is no surprise, who knows how often it comes out from under that seat - it looks relatively new. I've noticed it to be somewhat of a trend, this keeping of tissue boxes under driver's seats. I suppose it may be for when the ones like me aren't available. The manner with which he passes them verifies that it occurs relatively often around him. I take them from him gratefully, and now that his hand is empty he allows it to fall to my thigh. And he leaves it there.
                                                                                      And he leaves it there.
And I hope, as I always do, that just this once... that he'll just leave it there.