Water Stains

The train halts. Doors open. Bodies exit. I follow the line, minding the gap, wondering how many people don’t watch their step. The hot air envelops my body like steam after a shower. I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is humidity or sweat. The succulent I got in the city is in a small pot, but I carry it with two hands anyway.

The heat in the tunnel under the tracks is stifling, like a crowded elevator in an old building. Water leaks through the bricks when it rains. It brings with it traces of minerals that leave white drip marks and make the faults impossible to forget.

I set the small plant down on a cement ledge to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. The motel is only four blocks away, an eternity in the heat. I keep my head down to hide from the sun. The cracks in the sidewalk are an epidemic. The ground beneath our feet is always shifting. That’s how most things go, though. Slowly and steadily and we don’t even notice.

The bridge out on 85, that had cracks too. All those cars, all those people, driving to work, to their children, just passing through--when it collapsed, they collapsed. I hoped they all had insurance on their cars, their bodies, their lives. I bet some didn’t, though. I hoped they all could swim, but I bet some couldn’t. This stifling heat is better than losing your fingers and toes to frostbite in the river under a collapsed bridge.

If only there was a troll under the bridge to keep people from passing. He probably would’ve noticed the cracks.

*

The sky is so clear it’s like an abstract painting, fading from soft blues to blinding whites. It feels endless, but I know it’s not.

The receptionist at the motel isn’t there when I get there. He’s probably out back smoking a cigar, so I reach behind the desk and take the key with #18 impressed on the orange plastic tag.

Room 18 is hard to find if you’re not a regular. It only says 18 if you look hard enough and see the ghost of the one that used to hang beside the eight. The door isn’t locked.

Staring at the water stains on the ceiling, she lays on the bed, arms splayed out, one tied to cut off circulation, the other dangling off the bed. I undo the makeshift tourniquet, and roll her onto her side.

“Hey,” she resists, “I was watching those.”

She thinks that the water stains only grow when she isn’t watching.

I kneel down next to her, so that our eyes are level, but hers are closed now. My gaze drops to the needle on the floor that fell from her slender fingers. I hope it was clean. I bet it wasn’t.

“I got this for you,” I tell her softly, “look.” I show her the succulent, but she doesn’t care.

“I can’t make it stop growing,” she said.

I put it on the end table, so she’ll see it after. I lay down on my back next to her to wait and watch the water stains. If the world were upside down, I could think it was spilt coffee. But right side up, they’re only water stains.

About the Author

Becca Choi, English major and Art-major-wannabe, aspires to travel the world. She spends most of her time day dreaming and conjuring up adventures, vacations, and road trips.