A young trucker lives across the cul–de–sac with his pretty girlfriend. She has a limp and lends me her hairdryer. When he’s home, he drinks until he’s numb to his thunderous sound–system, or he shows us all of his guns. He coats his knives in anticoagulant. But one night he brought out a high–powered telescope and honey whiskey. We could almost see the popped bubbles in the moon’s concrete surface. His girl doesn’t come out much when he’s gone. He says she has an internet addiction. Then he tips a little of the honey whiskey back into him and says something about bedding Mexican women while he was on leave in the Marines. Only he doesn’t say “bedding” or “Mexican” or “women.”
Rebecca Lindenberg is the author of Love, an Index (McSweeney’s 2012) and The Logan Notebooks (Center for Literary Publishing 2014). She’s the recipient of an Amy Lowell Poetry Fellowship and a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Grant, and residencies from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown and the MacDowell Arts Colony. She holds a PhD in Creative Writing and Literature from the University of Utah.