Plate AO-10483

I only go for runs during holiday breaks. Thanksgiving, Christmas, when I’m out of the city. When only two traffic lights can slow me down. I’m running today from my childhood home to the cemetery five miles out. I’m running back home too. Unless I’m too tired. Unless I need my mother to come pick me up. I haven’t run in three months. But my lungs are strong from walking through the city. In Manhattan, there are so many people to pass. They watch me, watch how I pass them. They watch intently. If I cut it too close, they shiver or they huff. Like I’m a beast. When I speed up to pass them, my shins hurt. Sometimes. They hurt now. I’m only on mile three. But it’s lovely to be out of the city. On a sidewalk with no one to pass. The grass is winter yellow. I have thin saliva. Good for running. It never gets caught in my throat.

On mile four, I pass Eric’s house. It might not be his house anymore. Or his parents’ house. I haven’t seen him in eight years. High school graduation. He wore sequins beneath his regalia. On my trips home, I never see anyone I knew in high school. Not one theater friend. Not one math friend. Not one teacher. How peaceful.

I remember nothing about Eric’s house. Except that it’s his house. Except that, by foot, it’s four-point-one miles from mine. I might’ve kissed Eric in his house. In a red room. Or a white one. Hiding from his parents. They wanted him to be straight. Or that happened in a different house. With different parents. I’m not certain who in high school was gay.

I get honked at in front of Eric’s house. A beep-beep-beep that makes me trip over my feet. I check my pants aren’t falling down. Of course they aren’t. The drawstring is my ally. The car is silver. Tailgating. But in control. The license plate is AO-10483. The car passes me. I run after it. I’m motivated to pick up my pace.

At the cemetery, my knees feel flattened. My shins are coming apart. But there’s a dead raccoon for me to run away from. So I don’t rest. I turn back for home. Five miles to go. And then a beep-beep-beep. From the same car. From AO-10483. Still tailgating. Still controlled, easy. I want to yell. I want to yell, “What’s wrong?” I pull up my pants. They’re already up. The driver has silver hair. Or I can’t see their hair. Then the car is out of sight. I take out my phone. I keep moving. I text Phil—a man I met last year at a bar. Did you honk? I text Jake—a man I met last year on Grindr. Did you honk? Neither of them would focus on me. Just on themselves. They got caught in the middle of their sentences. They didn’t bother to finish their sentences. Like it slipped their minds that I was there. I’m not sure I cared. I run into a branch. My cheek bleeds, dribbles. They both respond. Phil: Huh? Jake: No. I know no one else in town. No one who would honk.

I’m not worth honking at. I’m not muscular or tall. I’m not fast or slow. My shoelaces are tied. I’m not dripping sweat. My clothes are unremarkable. A gray sweater. Black gloves. And I’m not a woman. I’m not worth honking at. I’m meant to be left alone.

I run home and sense the car behind me. Surveilling me. Maybe. In case I am being watched, I make my strides even. But my knees are swollen, uncooperative. I pass Eric’s house. And I pass Sandro’s, Kate’s, Seth’s, Darby’s. I think. I’ve been to each of their homes once or twice in high school. I barely remember their faces. Theater kids. Smiling. Always smiling. Aggressive teeth. Always happy to see me go.

I stop looking at the houses. My feet are enough of a view. The town feels too familiar now. That’s not why I come home. I come home to be hidden. To have space around my shoulders. I thought it was understood: if you haven’t seen me in years, you don’t know me anymore.

At home, a congratulations from Mom. “Ten miles! Wow!” The same from Dad. “I got honked at,” I say. “Twice. The same car. Twice.” I ice my knees. They’re flimsy, unusable. “AO-10483,” I say. “Just leave people alone. Let them have silence. Jeez. Why honk? Twice.” Mom says, “Oh no.” I say, “No one knows me here. Who would honk? Just leave me alone.” Dad says, “Everyone knows you here.”

After my shower, I stare out the window. No silver car. The world has too many mysteries. Where is Cleopatra’s tomb? Are more Nazca lines to be found? No cars pass by. But a man walks down our street. My age. Silver hair. Shivering. Not dressed for winter. Looking around—maybe. Looking for me. Or he’s enjoying the day. The sun on his back. Alone. Lost in thought. I step away from the window. I give him his peace.

At night, Mom and Dad ask me downstairs. We light the Hanukkah candles. I hate fire. Why light a candle when you could not? Wax falls on the table. Wax falls on my thumb. The menorah is unsteady, so we wedge a menu under its end. My idea. And now the menorah is steady. I never think about holidays. Holidays are for when I wanted to feel part of the world. Everyone at once, lighting candles, spilling wax. On holidays, too much happens at once. But my parents are happy.

I say, “Could an old teacher have honked?” Dad says, “Mister Garrett maybe? He said you were a good student.” I say, “He was biology?” I open a present. An IOU. An IOU for something. I can’t read Mom’s handwriting. I ask, “For what?” She says, “For a half marathon. For the entrance fee.” “You really think I can do it?” I’m sure I can run a half marathon. Or a marathon. But next to other people? Their sticky feet. Their high spirits. Hair bouncing in my face. Indistinguishable faces. Indiscriminate clapping. Toothy cheering. Their yays.

In bed, I open Grindr. In the city, everyone uses Sniffies now. There, exact locations can be seen. More or less. There, a man figured out the difference between when I was in my apartment and when I was in the gym across the street. When he did, I closed my windows. I cried. But here, they still use Grindr. Friendly Grindr. Where the faces exist somewhere, somewhere close, somewhere. On Grindr tonight, I look for who I know. I look for the driver in the silver car. I see Mister Garrett. He has a frog face: enormous mouth, wide-set eyes. When the time came in high school, he let me and my lab partners dissect a cat fetus. He only had access to one. And he chose us. I say: Mister Garrett? He says: Former student? I say yes and he blocks me.

Sandro is on Grindr too. He still looks like a theater kid. In one photo, smiling and shaved. Then wearing a fake beard in another. Dressed as a wizard, on stage. His skin soaking up a spotlight. I say: Sandro? He says: Simon! He says: Still in New York? He says: Still a banker? He says: I never noticed your eyes were blue. I say: How do you know I’m a banker? He says: Meet up?

I can’t sleep. My mind pulls and pulls open my eyes. I have an outward mind. It tries to look in on itself. But it can’t. It tracks and tracks other people. Noisy people. They’re always looking my way. As if I’m in their way. As if they’re forced to look at me like I’m forced to look at them. I don’t know where else to look. People in every direction. They look down at their phones but then always look up. Always, always, I think I can look down. Look in. But my gaze gets caught. Half out, half in. I’m always exhausted. Tired neck. I saw an article last week about the “loneliness epidemic.” The article thinks I’m lonely. Lonely in the 2020s. As if I weren’t before. The article thinks I’m lonely because of smartphones. Because libraries aren’t fun for kids. But they’re fun for me. The article is obvious, a crowd pleaser. But it’s wrong. The problem isn’t loneliness but being half in, half out. Too little of both. Everyone’s malnourished. If I were in… If I were in, alone, in… I’d be happy.

I can’t sleep. I try to remember the honking. But that’s already hard. Three beeps? Four? I try to remember Sandro. In high school, he hummed during tests. He found it funny to ask how everyone’s parents were. Like he was some distant relative. He never met mine. Still, he asked me the question and laughed at his formality. I remember too much about high school. I message Sandro: Let’s meet up tomorrow. It was him who honked. It must’ve been. He’s always been engaged with the world. Spitting noises at people. Grabbing their hands.

My father wakes me up. Shakes my shoulder. Like I’m a child. Like I’m a waste in bed. He leaves my bedroom. I dress. I walk downstairs and step past him and head outside. It’s windy. The oak trees shake. The evergreens have seizures. In high school, Sandro had a seizure and I looked the other way. I walk my running route in case the car comes back. Or to be outdoors on an empty sidewalk. Splintery knees. Thinking thoughts of my own. But my thoughts are sick. I shouldn’t be allowed to look at other people. I see a girl in a playground and think she looks mean. She looks like she’d punch me in the gut. And I see a man on his bike. He can barely go straight. I want to push him off. Push him indoors. This can’t be what I’m always like. Heavy and violent-minded.

In high school, people spoke to me. I knew I wasn’t friendly but to them I seemed so. I wore bright colors. I looked teachers in the eye. Now, I’m unapproachable.

On my walk, cars don’t honk. They follow the curves of the road. What else would they do? On my walk, I remember the honks. The beep-beep-beep that threw me back into the town. I’ve visited my parents many times since high school. But I never felt “in town.” I never felt “in my house.” I’ve tried to feel “in myself.” I’ll forget the honks. But soon enough?

Then on my walk, a car honks. It’s behind me so I turn around. I’m ready to shout. To defend myself. But a car hit a telephone pole. A quarter mile down the road. Its license plate starts with BT. When will all the cables be underground? We don’t need telephone poles. Useless masts.

A man jumps out of the car. He must be fine. He must be, because he jumped out of the car. Is he limping? Yes. Is he bleeding? Yes. He starts to turn toward me. Me? So I shield my face and cross the street and hurry home. He might’ve been holding his head.

My parents light the Hanukkah candles. I give them chocolates. Like I do every year. They’ve never asked for anything else. They know I wouldn’t get them anything else.

The candles burn so slowly. I sit with Mom and Dad until they’re out. As I do, I message Sandro: On for tonight? He says: I have a request. You look so big and strong. In your pictures. Bigger than in high school. When we meet, I want to be off the floor. I want to be in your arms the whole time. If you get tired, you can sit down. But with me on your lap. Have you seen those pornos? Where people don’t touch the floor? Are you big and strong?

I only have one picture on Grindr. A plain picture of my face. Where I look handsome and pleasant. Closed-lip smile. Handsome and pleasant enough for an assignation. For nothing more than sex. Vanilla sex. I don’t look big and strong. I never have and I don’t want to.

I say: If I don’t want to lift you, we can’t meet? He says: Please. I want to be held. The candles stay lit for so long. I say: I’ll be big and strong.

Sandro asks to meet me at midnight. He can’t have me at his place. So he sends me the address to his office. He’s a lawyer now. An actor only on weekends. Community theater. Seussical, he says. The Wizard of Oz, he says. Great camaraderie, he says. He messages too much. Like he’s shoveling himself on top of me. He tells me I won’t be able to fuck him on his desk. It’s unstable.

Then it’s thirty minutes to midnight. I’m in bed. With a blanket pulled around my neck. But my foot is on the floor. Antsy. My foot is assuming the role of detective. Begging me to get up, to investigate Sandro. Beep-beep-beep. My foot taps the floor like it’s honking. Relax, foot, relax. I hate talking to my body. I only like to talk to my mind. I bury my face in the blanket. But I must get up.

I drive to Sandro’s office. In my father’s car. In GI4-29T. The old license plate format. Before the state ran out of combinations and switched. I should’ve taken my mother’s car. A fresh car. In this one, I drove myself around on prom night. To neighboring towns. To a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through and a McDonald’s. I was happy not to be at the prom. Wild dancing. Children desperate for their night to remember. Children hungry to imprint themselves with their peers before college. So common. That night, I tried to stay at home. Bake bread with my mom. But I felt too common. So I drove.

I park in front of the office. I’m the only car here. The lot is under a bright light. So I move my car to the street. I don’t see AO-10483. I adjust the mirrors. But I’m alone here. In a heavy car. My head leans into the window. I feel made for the stars. My body molds to the seat. My eyes close. They become part of the night.

Then a knock on my window. I shriek and jolt for the lock. The car’s already locked. “Who is it?” I yell. “Sandro,” Sandro says. My mind is not my friend. It goes from sleep to mania too quickly. From stillness to paranoia. My mom once said, “The opposite of stillness need not be paranoia.” But how?

Sandro says, “Hello!” I say, “How’re you here?” He says, “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be here?” He motions for me to roll down the window. I don’t. I say, “But I don’t see your car.” “It’s parked down the street.” He pulls on my door handle. I say, “What’re you doing?” “Still saying hello,” he says. “Get out of the car,” he says. I do. He holds my face. Like he doesn’t recognize me. Feeling my cheeks. Tracing my chin. A finger on my lips. His jacket sleeve dwarfs his wrist. “As handsome as ever,” he says. “I’ve never been that handsome,” I say. I move his hands off me, down to his thighs. “It’s so crazy to see you again,” he says. I ask why. His eyes are so open. He asks, “How’re your parents doing?” He’s smiling and shaved. Skin bumpy like a high schooler’s. But adult hair. Wavy and neat. His eyes are too open. Too nosy. Like he’ll look inside my mouth. Peer behind my teeth. Learn the contents of my gut. I say, “I’m sure my parents are fine.” “Ready?” he says. “Ready for what?” I say. He mounts his hands on my shoulders and jumps into my arms. “Oof.”

Sandro’s office is on the third floor. No elevator. When he tells me that, I start to put him down. But he clings to my neck. He’s not too heavy. So I walk up the stairs. My legs might give out. I should be saving them for my next run. Each step, I think about dropping him. About turning around and dropping him. So he rolls down the steps. So I can watch him fall.

We survive to the top of the stairs. Now he’s heavy.  My neck is throbbing so I rip off his hands. He moves them to my shoulders. “So big and strong,” he says. I say, “Don’t say that.” I say, “Where can I sit down?” He directs me into his office. His elbow turns on the light. The carpet is dirty, warping. He has a crowded desk. Coffee mugs. PEZ Dispensers. He can’t be a lawyer. He’s too silly, insubstantial. A man who skips. A man who must think all his clients are innocent. If he’s a lawyer, why aren’t I? Why am I stuck at a bank? With anxious clients. Tight-fingered clients. Afraid to hand me their money. Like I’ll steal it. Like I’ll lose it before it slips into their accounts.

I sit in an office chair and perch Sandro on my lap. We take off our jackets but I’m ready to go home. And to ask if he honked. And to go home. “Big and strong,” he says. He uses a princess voice. I say, “Please don’t say that.” He says, “Big and strong.”

He kisses me. Thin lips. Dry tongue. At least his breath is tasty. Then I start to see red as we kiss. A red wall. Like the wall of the room where I made out with Eric in high school. Or was it Sandro. Not hiding from Eric’s parents, but Sandro’s. Bill and Phoebe. They were upfront about their homophobia. They loved red meat. They told me they hated my tank top.

I pull away from Sandro. His lips try to stick to mine. I say, “Did we kiss in high school?” He slaps my chest. He almost jumps off my lap. He says, “You don’t remember? Really?” I say, “We did?” He says, “Of course. A few times. In my bedroom. My parents never found out.” I say, “I thought that was with Eric?” He says, “Eric? Maybe you kissed him too. He lives in the city too.” I say, “Fuck. My mind is so small. I’m sorry. I forgot. My mind holds so little.” He touches my cheek. Like he’s amused. Like he had never expected to be remembered.

I kiss him. He’s kinder than I remember. Sweet giggles. Attentive lips. A hand that keeps finding its way into mine. My leg is asleep. But I don’t mind. I don’t feel how I usually do when a man is in my arms. Like indifferent hands are on me. And superior eyes. Ridiculing me. Mocking me for needing a body besides my own. Every time I meet a man, I lose track of myself. I’m forced to run away from myself into their arms. How fast can we finish? Whose skin is whose? Then after we’re done, I get myself back.

We try to take off our pants. It’s hard with him on my lap. But we don’t separate. I hold his neck and he leans back and kicks his legs above our heads and peels off his jeans. His underwear too. Butterfly legs. “So acrobatic,” I say. Then he clings to my stomach. Unbuttons my pants. Pushes them down my legs. Massages my thighs. Rubs my penis. Rubs my stomach. Holds my face. Says, “We’re finally naked. I always wanted to be naked with you.” He kisses my cheek. Nibbles my ear.

No one has always wanted to be naked with me. My flat chest. Knotty belly button. But Sandro does seem delighted. Like he’s excavating a dream. He climbs all over me. A baby searching for something to teethe on.

I stand myself up and hold him to my chest. Somehow. I somehow hoist him over my shoulder. “Yes,” he whispers. His strong penis brushes my back. I walk him around the room. Not enough books. Mounted diploma. He went to Texas Tech for law school. A school I’ve never heard of. A school I’m sure I could get into. Maybe.

“So big,” he says, “so big.” I do feel big. A man whose feet can keep him upright. Walking straight. Walking a happy path.

Then I move Sandro back into my arms. Tucked up like a pet. Lips kissing my collarbone. “I’m so small,” he says. I’ve liked feeling small too. For sinister reasons. For coming and going without notice. His reasons seem sweeter. More humane. In my arms, Sandro’s untroubled. Nuzzling me. Rubbing his limp hair against me. His eyes are lost in my chest hair. With Sandro in my arms, I know my mother loves me. My father too. Was that ever in doubt? They must’ve loved holding me. Their baby boy. Holding me up in front of the world. In front of the library. The elementary school. Watching my baby feet kick toward the world. They must’ve thought, The world will love having him. That must be what I feel now. For Sandro. Lucky to be holding him. Holding him high for the world. My baby boy. Parading him around like a gift. My baby boy.

He’s getting heavy. But I try to hold him higher. My legs are aching. I wish I hadn’t done that run. Using up my legs on myself. Selfish. “You look so beautiful,” I say. “Do I?” he says. “Your skin’s so soft,” I say. Pristine skin, not as bumpy as I thought. Like my hands could ruin him. With their dirt and oil. With their force. I try to hold him gently. Like I’m his pedestal. He’s got innocent eyes. When they look up at me now, I feel significant.

After sex, we’re on the floor. Me on my back. Sandro lying on top of me. None of him touching the ground. I feel I’m doing my job.

I say, “Your weight feels good.” He says, “I don’t weigh much.” He starts to get up. His hair slips too easily through my fingers. Like my hands are for myself. Like he’s finished exploring. I say, “You don’t have to move.” He settles back into my arms.

I’m calmer than I’ve ever been in a cuddle. Steady hands. Loose gaze. I say, “Did you like me in high school?” Sandro says, “You don’t remember?” I pet his ear. I say I don’t. “More or less,” he says. I say, “People didn’t like me in high school. Always sneering at me. Like I was to keep my distance. Like I’d cause them to break out in hives.” “That’s intense,” he says. “Sorry,” I say, “it’s nice to be here with you.” “I liked high school,” he says, “so I probably liked you.”

I hope I carried him better than most men. Held him softer. Made him feel smaller. I say, “Let’s do this again tomorrow?”

When he rolls off me and says, “Time for bed,” I feel alone. I feel used. Like I’ve been thrown back in time and left there. I hold his hand. Or I grab it. A snapping turtle. Manic, scary. Or I’m too small to be scary. I say, “Let’s sleep here. I’m a good pillow. A good mattress. Whatever you need.” He says, “Maybe tomorrow.” I say, “Perfect. Tomorrow.”

He gets dressed and reaches for the door. I pick him up. He’s so light, so here. He asks me to put him down. I ask, “What’s your favorite color?” “Red,” he says, “any red.” He pushes against my chest. Ouch. I put him down. He reaches for the door. So I ask, “What do you do for fun?” He doesn’t answer. So I pick him up. Throw him over my shoulder. Spin around and around. He kicks a little. Pushes on my back a little. “We can do this tomorrow,” he says. “Just five more minutes now,” I say. “Fine. Five.” He lets himself flop over me.

We sway, sway.

Then the five minutes are up. He climbs down, sighs. Like he’s gone through an arduous journey. But he acts sweet still, happy still. He kisses my shoulder. So gentle. Or patronizing.

We leave his office. His legs wobble. Like he’s meant to be back in my arms. In the parking lot, he asks, “Did you drive here?” I say, “You met me at my car.” “Right,” he says, “I forgot. I thought you might’ve run here.”

I say, “You thought I might’ve run here?” I was right. It was Sandro who honked. An aggressive, threatening honk. A honk that shot me from my path. Unnecessary, intrusive. It must’ve been him. I pull up my pants. But they weren’t down. I know I shouldn’t care about honking. Hostile noises. And I might not. I’m good at looking away from the world. But that honk. The honk of a person who can’t keep their eyes on the road. The honk of a person hunting me down.

Sandro’s shivering. He says, “Well, I’m glad we finally fucked. You’re the only person from high school I’ve fucked.” A bold thing to say. Like he’s no longer small. No longer in my arms. I want to be in bed. Both feet under the covers. Staring at nothing. At the backs of my eyelids. The dark.

Still, I say, “Did you drive here? Did you drive here?” I’m out in front of my body. My throat is pouring out of my mouth. Sandro nods. His teeth chatter. He zips up his coat. Tiny hands. I hold his hands. Try to warm him up. Or try to hurt him. My hands are jittery. I push down on his thumbs. I say, “You drove in AO-10483?” “In what?” he says. I say, “Your license plate. AO-10483.” “Yes, actually,” he says, “why? Why are you asking?” “So you honked at me,” I say. “Twice,” I say. “When you were running?” he asks. He pulls his hands from mine. “Yes, when I was running. Running straight. By myself. My eyes on my feet. My eyes not on the road. Not looking for anything from the road. Or from you. I didn’t come here to be honked at.” He says, “I was just honking hello. I recognized you. You look the same.” I say, “Honking a spotlight on me. No privacy or peace. Just let people have peace. Let them have themselves. And run in a straight line. Without pushing them over. Like they’re rats. Rats who will scatter when you tell them to. Too eager. Eager to pull me into your life. Not content on your own. With your own thoughts. Sad world. Dragging me into the world when you didn’t have to.” Where is my throat? I can’t feel my throat.

Somehow I bump into my car. How? He led me here. Inched me through the parking lot to the street. Like he has control of my body. Now he steps away. Holds up his arms. His hands are trembling. From the cold, I think. I’m not a scary person. I’ve always been so small. He backs away from my car. “Be careful,” I say. He turns around. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say. He hurries away. His hands are inconsolable. Moving up and down his jacket. Scratching and shaking. Looking for his deep pockets.

I’m not meant for people. Nasty people. Immovable people. On my drive home, I still see people. At 2 AM. They should be in bed, out of sight. Two flirty people. On the side of the road. Arms linked. Hard to see. Their heads floating above their black coats. Black coats and black pants. Like they don’t care if I hit them. Like they don’t care if I go to jail. I need my bed. I pass the McDonald’s. 24-hour people. Gobbling, gobbling. I don’t think I could ever stand people. Stepping on my feet. Looking down my throat. Pulling my hair. Shining lights on me. I make it home. My father is on the couch. He’s folding laundry. The menorah is in the window, set up for tomorrow. Wax dried to its base. “Where were you?” he asks. Prying people. Junk people. “You okay?” he asks. Being invisible should be easy. A matter of looking down and closing my eyes. But eyelids are thin, translucent. “Go to bed,” I say. “Come here,” he says. He holds out his arms. He wants me in his arms. I turn for the stairs. Then I turn back to him and sit on the floor and close my eyes. I want him close. I want him away. I want him close.

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Max Kruger-Dull holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in AGNI, Story Magazine, West Branch, The Greensboro Review, the minnesota review, Quarterly West, and elsewhere. He lives in New York with his boyfriend and two dogs. For more, please visit maxkrugerdull.com.