You watch the road with one eye and Nancy, curled sideways, dozing, with the other. She makes you afraid. Not afraid of rednecks, afraid of kissing, of not kissing, of fumbling. Your first time was in the basement of the Methodist church with a girl you never saw again. You didn’t think about blaspheming. You were listening to your hormones. You see Nancy’s dandelion hair and pale fingernails. She’s your church now, but you see the indifference in her walk, always a little ahead of, not with. You see it in her dance. She will dance with you or with someone else or alone.
The sand is white, the water is blue, and the car is parked under a long empty bridge. You walk in the warm surf and watch the gulls, and when you look back the car is tiny. Nancy naps on the back seat. You stop and stare out at the flat blue horizon. The receding water sucks the sand from under your feet, and you sink a little. You wonder who Nancy will, someday, decide to love.
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