KIM CHINQUEE

Athlete

My mom, my son, and I go to dinner at a place called Margarita’s. My son has just flown in, his first visit here from college. I’ve just flown in too, from home in New York. We sit under the umbrella, making talk, eating chips and salsa. My son jumps over the rail, going to smoke in the lot. Two ladies say he must be an athlete. My mom sips her cocktail and says maybe later we can take a drive to see her brother's campsite. It’ll take an hour to get there. I ask her what we’ll do. My uncle is pleasant. I tell my mom I’m not sure. I remember my son and me when he was little. It was just us two. We’d rent these silly movies. We’d drive to find a sunset. We’d color with our noses. We’d make a pie and put it on a doorstep. We’d turn up the tape and dance like silly people. By the time the food comes, my son’s back from his smoke and my mom’s on her third happy hour special. I get a salad, skipping the sour cream, the shell. My mom gets a steak meal. My son opts for a fajita. It starts to rain, and then my mom says the campsite’s out of the question. Finally, we all run to the car, saying the last one there is a raincoat.

The Car

A Chevy Berlinetta. Her husband had surprised her. The sun began to set, and he drove them with the top down. She said to him she loved him. She didn’t care about the car much. She drove it, pushing on the pedal. They went to the Gulf, which would be a hurricane much later, things destroyed and gone and folks: their future former neighbors with their shark boat, who they would grow attached to. She pressed her shoe to the pedal. It was a car much faster than either of them had beforehand.