The Cornfield

The sharp edges of emerald leaves prick at baby soft skin, leaving a rash at my neck that flourishes in rosy bumps. It burns like the body of the little girl that lays in the middle of the field. Dirty finger nails clawing to relieve the sensation only, in the end, make it worse. The stalks are higher than my head now. Ready for their gold to be harvested soon.

Picking. Scratching. Picking. Clawing.

What’s that smell?

It’s the girl in the field.

Don’t play games.

She died playing a game.

Picking. Scratching. Picking. Clawing.

Blisters pop. Fluid oozes over my fingers. There are blisters all over her body. Red and boiling with fury from the afternoon sun. She only got there just this morning. She will be unrecognizable by the time the sun goes down. Or by the time my father’s combine sweeps the fields in a few short days.

Her body will be mangled by its teeth.

It doesn’t really have teeth, you know.

Doesn’t matter. It will destroy her either way.

There is no one out there!

Go look for yourself.

She looks twice as big as the greenery in the field when she stands up. Her size reduces every step closer she gets until she is swallowed by the leaves.

Picking. Scratching. Picking. Clawing.

I tug at the husk of an ear I pulled this morning before I found the little girl. Leaves getting lighter after each layer I peel away. This is what keeps the corn from getting burnt. I wonder if we pulled her out now, would we be able to peel her skin until it’s soft again?

Rustling comes from the field in front of me. An emerald leaf catches her neck. She doesn’t flinch. Just like I didn’t flinch. With every step back her size overcomes the corn once again. A rash is forming at her neck when she sits back down by me.

Picking. Scratching. Picking. Clawing.

She looks like me.

She is you.

Friday Morning at the Coffeeshop

You are sitting in the café above your favorite bookshop. Your tongue is burnt from the too hot coffee and distracts you as you try to finish an assignment before your last class of the week.

Your music is at a volume that doesn’t block out the white noise and simple conversations taking place around you. La hora fijada, la hora fi-jada, you say in your head, breaking down the phrase that is not your native tongue.

Do you know any Spanish? The guy and girl at the table next to you have just sat down, having a conversation that is difficult not to overhear.

Not very well, the girl says. But I can understand it better than I can speak it.

First date. He begins to explain his heritage, tracing back the story of his family in Mexico between sips of coffee.

You ignore it after a minute, you need to complete this assignment. As much as you don’t want to, you ignore the conversation. Clicking away at letters on the keyboard.

Te extraño. Te extraño, mucho.

The conversation swirls back into your focus when the two laugh louder than you think they should have.

My mother was living in Mexico, she didn’t have a lot of money at that time. But my father knew, he just knew from the moment that they met that he was going to marry her. And he had a good enough job at the time that he could fly to see her twice a month.

That’s crazy. The girl nods her head in disbelief.

Can you imagine?

No, I can’t. That would be so hard, I can’t even think about trying to make that work.

I can, you think to yourself.

You’ve been dating for almost a year now. And you knew, too. That feeling. That I’m going to fall so hard for you feeling. You did fall, and you crashed and you burned until your two separate energies melted into one.

There is a tear streaming past the smile on your face. You miss him. One thousand five hundred and forty six miles. You miss his voice, his skin, his laugh. The way that his hair curls over his forehead in the morning and the rasp in his voice at the end of the day.

You see each other as much as you can. It’s enough but it’s not enough. When you think you’re not thinking about anything, you are thinking of him. You think about your fist kiss and your last kiss and all kisses that you can remember in between. You think about the last time you said goodbye and how you cried in front of your family uncomfortably because even though they say that they understand, they don’t. No one does. Except for you and him.

It doesn’t get easier, it gets harder. But you’re more sure of him than you’ve ever been of anyone. So you are willing to take the emotional beating for the apart time over the next two years. Not to prove anything to anyone, because your relationship is neither a task, nor a trophy to hold up for the rest of the world to see.

Well, they obviously made it work. They both sip at their coffee.

You wipe the tiny tear and turn the music up loud.

Te quiero, mi cariño.