You Packed Beer and Secrets

Leigh Hughes

April 2006

It was the first night we would spend alone and I was still a child. Seventeen. I made us a picnic and we sat on a blanket in the clearing near the creek behind my grandmother's house. I packed turkey sandwiches and blueberries. You packed beer and secrets.

We were lying on our backs, looking up at the cloud formations and finding animals.

"What does that one look like to you? That one right there," I asked.

"It does not look like a rabbit," I said and threw a blueberry at you.

You sat up and took off your shirt. Your skin was tan from doing yard work all summer; your hair was streaked with blonde. The muscles in your back moved like the waves on a windblown swimming pool.

You grabbed a beer from the cooler and asked if I wanted one. I said I did, even though I didn't. You popped the top and took a long pull. I saw you hold in a belch and I felt special. I popped my own top and set the can down beside me.

You leaned over. You took a hold of my face and kissed me. Your lips opened and your tongue pushed its way into my mouth. I tried to wiggle my tongue a bit, like I knew what I was doing. Your mouth was sour and cold and I hoped mine tasted like blueberries.

You got up and said you'd be right back. You threw your shirt back on and winked. I nodded. The sun was going down and it was getting cold so I wrapped myself in the blanket. I saw the first star and squeezed my eyes tight, wishing you and I would be together forever.

Just before the sun dipped behind the trees for the night, I heard a soft thud on the ground behind me. I sat up and turned, expecting to find you there with a fistful of wildflowers and a toothy grin. Instead I found a dove with a broken wing, gasping for air, and blood on its white belly.

Another one dropped from the sky. This one wasn't breathing at all. I scooped up the first bird with thoughts of saving its life. It looked straight through me and I felt God shake his head in bitter disappointment. I heard footsteps crunching on the ground and your cold laugh. I stuffed the doves under my shirt and ran. I knew if I hurried, I could make it home before Momma even realized I'd left.

Leigh Hughes lives in Texas with her husband, three children and two cats. She has been published numerous times online and in print.