American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 56
Heat
Marcie Mallory
She was waiting for him when he pulled into the
driveway; old diesel truck groaning, exhausted, billowing
out white clouds of smoke, choking the already hazy sky.
Standing behind the screen door, tucked into the shadows,
she watched him stumble out as if gravity weighed on
him more than it did others.
“What’s up?” He called, the sickly perfumed smell
of whiskey and Swisher Sweets wafting off his body so
thick she felt as though she could see it. That combination
of smells had once reminded her of ropey muscles and
hard hands holding soft skin, wisps of love poems sighed
in her ear, and lazy smiles. Now it heightens her senses to
distinguish any signs of anger flashing.
“You know,” her voice sharp, as if glinting in the
sunlight. Two predators laying in the tall grass.
“Oh, c’mon baby.” A smile growing on his face, not
quite reaching his eyes—malicious— flexing his audacity,
determining just how much he could push.
Even as she spun away from him, she felt the weight of
the heat intensified by her instincts of fight or flight, skin
shining as little dew drops appeared across the bridge of
her nose. She felt his hand close over her own, as if he
could smell the sudden appearance of perspiration once
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