It Is All Just. . .

Half waking with the light, skin stuck to the seat, the tearing sound it makes as I move.  Half dozing all night, thinking dreams, my breath fogging the windows, everything damp, windows cracked to let in the mosquitoes.  A large back seat is never large enough, unable to straighten my legs, back cramped, shoulders.  Rolling over to stare at the gray light, I smoke a cigarette.  Furry teeth, bad breath, greasy hair.  Cars drive slowly by, the crunching of tires on the cheap roadway.  People going to work.  

In a little while, lights come on in Tommy's trailer, and a bit later, his step-father comes to his car to go to work.  We both pretend I am not there.  Tommy comes to the car and looks at me.  I let the window down.  It is awkward.  I know not to go into the trailer to disrupt the morning ritual.  His brother and sister get ready for school, his mother in her nightgown making breakfast.  There is a bathroom by the park entrance, and that is where I go to pee, to wash my face, to brush my teeth.  The sink is dirty with old stains, old complaints.  I feel the grit on the cement floor beneath my shoes.  I get ready for school.  

A carton of milk and a package of little sugar coated donuts at the 7-11 mini-market.  I buy a pack of Marlboros.  I'll need money soon.  

I sit through my classes without saying much, tired, numb.  I do not despair.  It is all just left behind me.  I'll be eighteen soon.  Half  a year of school left, I think.  I will finish.  Whatever happens, I will graduate from high school.  

The school day over, I drive to Tommy's.  He is not home yet, so I wait in the car.  It is afternoon.  I fall asleep.  When he comes home,  I get to shower.  He and I will hang out.  That much is clear.  Other than that, nothing is.