July 1988

 She wraps her towel around herselfand says she wants to show me something specialIn here she saysand slips into the garage for me to followOur barefeet rustle the catch-oil newspaperaround her grandfather’s Studebaker coupewhich sits tarped and propped on blocksWhat do you think? she saysMan I sayHow old is it?She puts her hand against its hard bodyWho knows? Way older than usMy eyes adjust to a workshop black with messShapes appear where they weren’t beforecircular saw blades a claw hammerscrewdrivers a monkey wrenchposters of racecars and Budweiser womenI finger a bucket of cool sharp nailsWater drips from my shorts onto the concreteI look at everything but her It’s dark in here I sayBut she understandsand hinges the garage door further downuntil summer becomes somethingpeeping through cracksPull up the tarpif you wanna look at it she saysI pull up the tarpOpen the doorif you wanna see inside she saysI open the doorClimb inif you wanna sit in it she says Are you sure I sayJust not up frontIn back she saysand climbs into the back for me to followThe tarp falls in placeThe world folds in on usI can’t seeNeither can IOur bodies smell of chlorine and cut grassOur breath of barbecued hotdogs and Otter PopsOutsidethe voices of our parents and Vin Scullydampen to chatterIt’s cold in here I saywith my best shiverScootch closerif you’re cold she saysI scootch closerShe puts her hand against my bodyLiarYou’re warmer than I ambut leaves her hand where it isBet you I sayand understanding nowput my hand to her bodyLemme feel____Joshua Peralta lives in Oakland, where he teaches high school English. His poetry, fiction, and nonfiction can be found in journals and newspapers including Bird’s Thumb, Spry, The Good Men Project, San Pedro Today, Random Lengths News, The District Weekly, Rip Rap, and Ariel.