Cadillac Couches by Sophie B. Watson

pulp.
    Finally, he came out of the bathroom and sat down. After a few minutes of silence, he cried. I watched the candle on the table. I didn’t say anything. He was howling. I wasn’t. He leaned his head against the wall and then pulled away so he could bang it, trying to head-butt some redemption.
    â€œStop it. Please don’t.”
    â€œI don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” He banged his head against the wall again in a horrible refrain.
    I was glad to see a tangible sign of his regret, but I didn’t like to see him hurt himself. And also I was angry, he was stealing my stupid thunder. This was, after all, my primetime victim slot. I could feel a horrible sarcasm rise up over the ashes of my broken soul. It beckoned me to feel the perverse kind of power that comes with being the hurt. I knew the hurter would have to go to Herculean extremes to win forgiveness. Was he entitled any pain of his own? I guess if he hadn’t any, he’d just be an asshole.
    Any of my other boyfriends would have been out the door over this: Bob, Joe, Clayton. But this was Sullivan, my wonderful Sullivan. That night of revelation, I drank more vodka, he smoked and cried. I don’t know why, but we went to bed that night and fucked like strangers. I couldn’t believe he’d done this with someone else. Me, who put chili in his cocoa, lavender on his pillow, and peppermint cream on his feet.
    After sex, I got up off him and saw blood running down my thighs.
    My period. I went to the bathroom and washed myself off. Then I went to the living room and grabbed my cigarettes before climbing into the bath in the dark and letting the water fill around me.
    After soaking for ages, I let myself pee in the water. I was about to get up when Sullivan called from the bedroom, “Can I get into the bath?”
    â€œSure,” I said and got out.
    We were diseased after Alicia. There was no cure. Like my friend Randy rudely put it: “You know, you try to get over these things, but there’s no getting around the fact that when you go to bed that other girl’s pussy is going to be there in the bed with you both. And when you wake up in the morning, guess what . . . her pussy still going to be there! And like they say: three’s a crowd, baby.”
    We’d almost crossed Saskatchewan and Blue Rodeo were long finished their B side so I hit stop on the tape deck and sat up. I would never be able to figure out why it had gone that way with Sullivan, why I hadn’t been enough for him. But now that I’d lost him, I had nothing else to lose. The little guy in my heart bouncing on a trampoline—hoping, jumping, leaping, trying—had been in a hammock ever since it all ended, taking one long timeout until now.
    â€œC’mon, Isobel, you should take a break, let me drive, I swear I won’t pull over for any more hitchhikers.” It was then that Finn yelled, “Hills! Girls, girls, we’re headed for hills.”
    â€œIt’s a mirage, Finski, une mirage. It’s time to camp for the night, on est tous un peu zinzin.”
    It was dark by the time we parked in a field somewhere near the Manitoba border who knows where. We had a trusty pack of wet wipes for cleaning ourselves, a bottle of water, and some caramel popcorn and more delicious beef jerky for nourishment. We were practically pioneers. Finn slept diagonally in the car and we slept on my trusty air mattress, just beside the car. It was hot enough to sleep without the tent and not too many mosquitoes. I spotted my lucky Orion above.



side a, track 5

    â€œso fuck you and your untouchable face”
    â€œUntouchable Face,” Ani DiFranco
Kiss of Life
    Day 3
    1,567 klicks
    800-ish to Ontario
    The big green highway sign said MANITOBA 50KM in white letters. My lips were sore from shelling too many salty Spitz sunflower seeds. I was twitching for a cigarette. Licorice