Southern Girls Approximately

When you first arrived in this town, a senior physician said, ‘watch out, women here will see you as a ticket out of this place.’

You remember thinking, derisively, ‘I didn’t see any gates or parameter fence.’


But you remember the comment when you’re out and this pretty redhead starts talking to you.

‘What kind of medicine do you specialize in?’ is the first and only question she asks.

You think about asking her if she’s kidding.

But it’s at that moment—even while feeling the softness of her neck and much before the 2 am drive home in your boots, boxers, and t-shirt—you realize even then that fucking this girl will debase you more than it will her.

But you go home with her just the same.

You find yourself walking through unmown grass into a house that reminds you so much of your own childhood it makes you a bit nauseous. It’s cluttered with lacey things that try to disguise its poverty. The walls are brightly painted, but the cheap construction shows in the uneven corners and low ceilings. Not even the dim lighting can hide it.

A little Paris Hilton dog runs up and begins barking, trying to entice the redhead into picking him up, but she goes into the bedroom instead.

Her bedroom smells of supermarket candles, so you focus on the feel of her skin instead. As your clothes come off, you hear a odd sound in the corner, and you think about looking—fearing a feng shui fountain—but your positioning makes such investigation difficult, and you ignore it and—thankfully—she already has a condom open and ready and so you continue what you are doing.


Briefly—later—thirty minutes? two hours?—you wake up, groggy, confused, and still a little drunk. By the time you figure out what you’re saying, you’ve already let out a sigh of a profanity.

You get out of the bed and start searching for your clothes. You have your boxers and t-shirt on by the time you pick up your jeans and find they are soaked. You had thrown them into the corner where she kept the dog’s water bowl—who keeps the water bowl in their bedroom?—and as you pick up your jeans, your wallet falls from the pocket and directly into the water, making a second splash.

You are looking at this enormous water bowl. It’s big enough for two of her little dogs to bathe in. You shake your head and again let out a profane sigh.

You put on your boots, tuck your cold wet wallet into the elastic strap of your boxers, ball up your soaked jeans, and walk out into the cold night, as she asks you if you really have to go.


And you drive home, half-naked, feeling both debased and vampiric, wondering where this all is going, but knowing that it is not going well.