I try not to wander past the memory of Red’s jaw ground tight, the ball of it jumping beneath brown skin, as I confessed to the carpet that Ben used to call me colored. Used to say he was affirming my mixed-ness. Absolving me of passing privilege. Used to say he meant no harm.

Further back that road is ugly. Upturned nails ready to poke through shoes. I stop at the memory of Red angry in a way I never made him otherwise— “I’m pissed at him, I’m pissed at you— why the fuck would you put up with that?”

I can’t follow that thought any further

If I walk that way I am in the back of a truck. Sprawled across the seat and loosened by tequila and heartache. And I hate this body. I want to punish this body. Except no, not like this. With a face too close to mine. The bristles of his beard pawing my cheek. “We’re outlaws”, he says, “we’re the rebel revolution”. I am trying not to look in his eyes, though he is holding me by the jaw— “where do you go when you turn your face away? Why won’t you look at me once we get drinking?”

I tell Red some of this, and he listens like something loaded. Listens like a bomb. I know he will be angry and I need him to be. I need someone else’s foot on the break.

Further back Ben leaves the room. His sister fondling the shot I refused to drink. “Ben’s one of those light skinned guys who wants to be white so bad he makes himself stupid”— this she says, her eyes on the blonde ends of my hair. I don’t remember how I got to his apartment. I remember him taking my shoes off at the door. Tearing at the laces. “If I don’t take you home would you hate me?” I hate you either way