It’s 42 miles till Fayetteville, and there’ll be trees, yes, it’s North Carolina, and sun, yes, but you really have no clue because one of the two no-brainer-given-circumstances-type things you guessed isn’t even true—once you get off that pretty southern highway it’s mostly liquor stores, a prostitute’ll ask you for a light but you gotta keep walking, you gotta soak your pants because of the gasoline you spilled when you were busy thinking about heating a sweet potato in the station microwave, where two men laugh at you anyway and ask why you like dem potaters so much.

Amanda Martin

07. 3.13