By Malia Bradshaw

That year, we only had sex in the car. Windows up, seats back, windshield wipers on. It wasn’t that the bed was too far, just that – scraping against leather and chilled glass – we were closer to god, closer to something that maybe we could call contained.

He knew I liked to keep one sock on. Because there’s a way to expose yourself without it being fully. But that night, he slipped it off and I let him.

Racing against clocks that don’t tick, our breaths were jagged and heavy. I laid beneath his arm watching the fog swirl from the inside. We could see the stars through the window.

“I love you.”

And perhaps, I meant it. Perhaps every leather seat I’d scratched was with nails that hadn’t yet grown. Perhaps I wanted something that maybe we shouldn’t call contained.

I waited. Silence. Noises that only came from my head. The chatter.

“I love you too.” But it came thirty seconds late. He was thinking. He was chattering from the inside, the kind of flight from unleashed uncertainty that makes a wild beast beg for a cage.

So he begged for a cage and I begged for a star that wasn’t dimmed by separation. It took him so long to realize. It took me so long to realize. But these clocks they never ticked. Those clocks
never ticked. They didn’t tick until now and now-

wouldn’t we always be
thirty seconds apart?
 

Malia Bradshaw received her BA in Psychology from St. Edward’s University, and has returned to St. Edwards to pursue a Masters of Liberal Arts with emphasis in Creative Writing. Before returning to St. Edward’s, she spent a year writing for several local magazines. She is also a yoga instructor in Austin.

Photo by James Chavez-Sanchez