The Mare

Velvet

I said, “But you don’t drink,” and she said, “I’m trusting you. Don’t tell anyone, all right?” I said I wouldn’t, but I didn’t like it because right away she wasn’t the same. Her eyes were different and she laughed like there was something wrong with her, like she was out of breath. But the steak was good and it was big. Also it was fun to watch her eat fried octopus.

Then she wanted to go for a drive and I said, “You will get in a lot of trouble if you get caught driving drunk with me.” She said, “There won’t be trouble. I only had one.” She turned down a tiny white road with black sky but also something glowing at the end of it. I felt like I used to when she read that book to me, like we were in a place I could only be with her; a place where nobody hit or yelled at anybody. Then Republicans didn’t matter anymore and the drink didn’t either. “Can we play music?” I said.

She put on this tape of old music by a group called the Shangri-Las. She said it was the name of a place where people didn’t get old, and there was a story about people getting lost there. Life was so perfect there that it made them crazy, so they couldn’t stay even though one of them fell in love. They tried to go back over mountains, but a huge snowstorm came and the Shangri-La woman who came with them turned old and died in front of her boyfriend while he cried. I asked if that’s what they were singing about, and she said no, it was just the name of the group. We were quiet for a while and I tried to like the music, even though it was corny. We drove into fog and everything got weird-beautiful: the red taillights on parked cars and numbers flashing on mailboxes, and sometimes deer-eyes. Ginger started singing, really soft. Her drunk voice was embarrassing, little and pinchy like a funny bone. But still, my neck tingled like when my mom did my hair. I said, “Can we drive a long time? Can we get a little bit lost?” And she laughed and said, “Honey, we already are a little bit lost.” I said, “Really?” She reached out and took my hand. “No,” she said. “Not really. Because we’re together.”