Sarah Gerard - Binary Star

John reads to me from the books he bought in Portland.

All sentient beings have at least one right, he says.

He lights a cigarette and opens the window. Cold salt air rushes my face.

All sentient beings have the right not to be treated as property.

Do you ever feel like property? he says.

All the time.

Why?

You never feel like you sacrifice more than you gain when you go to the supermarket?

You never feel like you’re part of a herd of cattle when you’re sitting at a stoplight?

Yeah.

He ashes out the window and reads the page over silently.

Why are you vegan?

Health reasons.

Is it really healthier?

I don’t answer. I don’t know. He keeps reading.

I can’t believe this stuff is true.

Like what?

Like, we eat over 7 billion chickens every year.

That’s disgusting.

Male chicks are immediately ground up.

Ground up?

Alive. They’re not useful.

Serve no purpose.

We drive a little farther and switch places at an Amoco. We continue to switch places each time we stop. We take turns navigating. When John drives, I read to him. He thinks that he bought the books in Portland for me, but I know he bought them for himself.

I don’t care.

I feel they aren’t real.

I tell him I’m too afraid to sleep while he’s driving on the cliffs. Really, I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to, I’m so awake. I swallow two Hydroxycut each time we stop, which is every few hours. I take myself to the bathroom before we eat and swallow more.

When I ask to stop at Walgreens for snacks, I get pills, magazines, bottled water.

He smokes impatiently. He calls from the car.

What’s taking so long?

I’m in the bathroom.

You’re throwing up.

I haven’t eaten for hours.

Come back.

Coming.

The road curves.

A revolution.

Do you think I’m sexy?

What?

Do you want to pull off and have sex?

We’re on a dangerous road.

Okay.

Maybe later, then.

Maybe later.

I look at my face in the mirror. It’s full of craters.

Some stars are fixed and some are not. I am not fixed.

Some believe that our sun’s companion is Nemesis, a red or brown dwarf, or an even darker presence several times the size of Jupiter.

Nemesis is not always detectible, but occasionally sends comets toward Earth and may be responsible for Earth’s periodic mass extinctions.

Nemesis is therefore also called the Death Star.

It is amazing what one can endure.

I know each box intimately. I believe in the benefits of green tea. I believe that coffee is the best replacement for food and also the best supplement. I believe that I need its bitterness because I don’t like it. I don’t deserve to like what I take in.

Most things are bitter, anyway.

Most things harden when they reach my center. Are compressed.

Most things are things I shouldn’t eat.

I pretend to like Tabasco because it burns.

I need to burn.

I am very scientific, or at least methodical.

Everything must be quantified.

I do constant research. I train myself to do it.

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Stars form in gravitational instability.

I want to go to the Grand Canyon.

I want to stand on the edge of its emptiness and feel small. Delicate.

No, fragile.

I want to sweat in the sun. Feel dry. Brittle.

Feel like mornings feel when I’ve been awake for days, because I’m standing on the dry desert earth, and I am part of it.

I want to stare across the desert and walk across it alone like the Mars of my mind.

If I wander far enough into the desert, I may become a dune.

And winds will blow across and reshape me, and I will see that my form has always been and will always be indefinite.

We’re stuck in a traffic jam in New Mexico and I get out to build a snowman on the side of the freeway. Other people get out of their cars, too, and soon there’s a small party sitting on the snow of the embankment watching the stilled vehicles extend for miles in both directions. I get back in the car.

I smoke the last of my cigarettes and John offers me one of his, and we wonder if it would be a good idea for me to walk down the onramp to the gas station and buy two more packs. People are honking but no one’s moving. The brake lights of several cars ahead of us go off, as if their drivers have put the cars in park. The driver in the car ahead of us climbs onto his roof with a pair of binoculars.

John takes a banana out of the bag at my feet, peels it, and offers it to me.

No thanks.

I read the fitness spa billboard three car lengths ahead of us: Want to Get in Shape for the Office Party?

You haven’t eaten anything today.

Yes I did. I ate some fruit at the continental breakfast.

No you didn’t. I was there.

I did.

You didn’t. I was there. I saw you.

I ate it on the way to the car. I was behind you.

He finishes the banana and tosses the peel out the window.

What does it feel like? he says.

What?

Starving.

I don’t know. It’s hard to describe if you’re not doing it.

I’m just trying to talk to you.

And I’m just trying to talk to you about your drinking, but you don’t even think you have a problem, so where does that leave us?

What if I really don’t have a problem?

I open the door.

Where are you going?

To get cigarettes.

We’re going to start moving soon.

I don’t think so.

Get back in the car. Get in.

I look down the length of cars and see brake lights flashing and going out for at least a mile.

It’s the same as it was before.

I would just really rather you be here. I don’t want to have to drive in circles by myself looking for you.

I get in the car and shut the door.