A girl and a young man, in an awkward silence, surrounded by shelves of mustard, ketchup, hot dog rolls. An image floating before my dizzied eyes. This was supposed to be an essay, wasn’t it? Somehow a story stood before me, playing out inside my head in sepia tones. Sepia, mustard, Chicago, loneliness, sweat in a hot dog stand. Everything blended to this painless birth of characters, the framing of a scene. I knew if I orphaned these words, simply because they were unconventional, I would suffer for it. Night sweats, strange panics, tearful regrets. Waiting for the ghosts of murdered prose to demand I send them off.

So here it is. A work of fiction, but written with my voice, my subconscious holding sway. A piece of art drawn out of me by your prompting, more mine than numbers, essays, lists. Take this offering, feel its weight. Measure its importance on any grid you wish, but know that my mind often turns, smiling, to creation.

“Hot Dog Stand”

The blacktop was hot beyond the baseball diamond. Sarah fidgeted, waiting for the game to end, shifting from one flip flop to the other. She had no interest in the score, but this summer, like every other she could remember, Darwin was working at the hot dog stand. She remembered, years ago, one of a pony-tailed throng, older brothers’ baseball games. They had giggled in line, no vegetarians then, waiting as he filled their cups with Coke. He slathered on ketchup and mustard, dark hair hanging in his eyes. The girls were that tender age, first beginning to laugh about symbolism, and whispered things about him they didn’t understand.

Their older siblings had known him. Sarah’s brother Jack had gone to school with Darwin for a time. But that was before Jack had joined the military. Now Sarah hardly ever saw her older brother. When she did, her father’s jaw got tight and her mother seemed pale.

Back then Jack had gone to his brother’s baseball games– Jamie, middle child, third baseman– because back then Jamie was around. So Sarah would come along, making eyes at the tall and quiet young man, band t-shirts beneath his dirty striped apron.

She was waiting for him now, light glinting in her eyes from the departing cars. Half-blinded, she saw him walking with a cigarette, idly untying greasy knots.

“I’ve still got a few things to do,” he said. “Pete wants me to clean and lock up.” She nodded.

“I’ll keep you company.”

They held hands, picking their way through cigarette butts and bleachers. “We won,” he told her, indifferent. “Oh. I guess that’s good.” A small pause before he replied. “No one comes to see a losing team, and empty seats don’t sell hot dogs.” She nodded.

He pushed his shoulder against the door in the right place, and it was hot inside. The smell of meat and baseball gloves seemed to get down her throat and in her eyes. She held back a slight cough– you think she’d be used to it by now– while he pulled the shutter across the counter window. Eyes adjusting, she released his hand while he got out the Windex. “So what d’you want to do later?” he asked, spraying down the counter. “I don’t know, see a movie maybe?” She felt distracted.

“Okay.” She eyed the shelves with their streaked glass doors. There were hot dog buns in numbers most people never see, looking sickly in the dim light. Industrial sized tubs of mustard and ketchup. Jamie had once convinced her that this stand used those little packets you get at fast food places. She had imagined immense caverns, cold and underground, filled with small mountains of white and red and yellow plastic, leaves you could never jump into. He had been a funny kid, Jamie. Not much of a student, but smart as hell just the same. And he had been proud of his speed, a constant challenger. Too proud, she now knew. Poor kid. When Jack had found out–

“Baby?” Darwin’s voice interrupted her thought. He had come over to throw out bits of brown paper towel, wet and stained blue from cleaning. “You okay?” She nodded. He pushed his hair back with his hand, narrowed his eyes just slightly, looking at her. She kissed him, a blissful distraction from such scrutiny, pressing her tongue between his teeth. He resisted for a moment, as if to say something more, but she slid her hand beneath his shirt with cool fingertips. He pulled tight against her, breaking the kiss to run teeth and tongue along her ear, doing his best not to damage her earring. He’d been chastised for that before. Unclasping her bra, a breathy whisper, surprisingly gentle for his low voice. “I can never feel close enough to you.” The small room and its distinct smell lost focus for her, replaced by the feel of counter top on the backs of her knees. She was quiet.

Later on, in their apartment, she was doing laundry in the kitchen sink while he slept. Her gaze kept pulling back to a picture, framed on top of the fridge. Two brothers, the same eyes, arms wrapped around each other grinning. Her best friends. The focus was terrible, their faces blurred yet the branches behind them were perfectly defined. She had barely known which end of the camera was front back then. She had barely known a lot of things.