The Rest Stop

The Rest Stop

“I need to pee,” I pronounce. 

My passengers sigh in syncopation. Irene, in all her engaged majesty, gruffs.

 “O, c’mon Hilary, hold it. We’re almost at the border.”

I cast a long, languid side eye in her hunched direction. 

“Irene, it’s been two hours. I am human, after all.” Wryly, “and I need to be loved.” 

She’s loud in her silence; her clenching tensing me more than my own nether-y urges. 

We keep rolling down the pine lined highway, open windows airing out the final hours of an abysmal bachelorette getaway. All that’s left is my overwhelming urge to get away. And pee. 

A blue rest sign fifteen miles ago promised me relief. I tunnel vision, accelerate methodically, lick the upper limits of the law. We lean into a curve. Another blue beacon emerges, beckons, coaxes. I gratefully peel off the route, unable to bear neither the inner nor outer tension much more. Irene’s new friends tolerated what I no longer could: the stomping, the tantrums, the pushing my piping hot cappuccino up into my face in an attempt to rush me. The endless mother-lover seeking projections. The not finding confusing-a-picture-of-an-air-mattress for-an-ice-cream-sandwich funny. The disapproval of my male stoner partner, since “there are better people out there” for me, anyway. The fault lines are clear, and I’m slipping past the cracks of her control. 

I slow down the ramp. An athletically tanned woman stomps away from a porta-a-potty, her bewildered partner trailing in the wake of her high pony. 

I park with a jolt, break free from the car’s confines. 

“I guess we’ll wait he-” but I’m past Irene’s muttering, rushing to the nearest receptacle.  

Roomy I think, wrenching open the disabled option. This won’t be so–

A mound of shit prevails well past the lip of the shiny black toilet seat, glistening in the doorway sun. Two emerald flies glint pleasantly on its soft peak, little gems bejeweling a crowning monstrosity. 

I hurl myself from the door, gagging, buckling over, heaving. Laughter streams from my face. I gasp for air and sense. 

Irene’s passengers leave the conditioned car’s purity.

 “Are you ok?” One asks.

“Do you need help?” Another offers.

“What’s going on?” Irene pushes past her maidens, demanding an answer.

“I– I—” I suck in air, hoping to expel the putrid memory from my lungs. “I— ahhha–the—'' 

I can’t even begin, where did it start, where can it end. 

I point a shaky finger “It’s– too—so—much,” my legs tremble with each wheezing giggle.

One passenger daringly approaches. 

“No, you don’t want to–” I manage to spit out, the buckling ceasing. “It’s shit. It’s shit upon shit upon layers of shit. A mountain of shit.”

Irene freezes. “Oh gross Hilary, stop, why is that funny.” Her eternal humourlessness propels her away, and she throws herself back into the car.

I watch her friends peel off, sorting their sheepish grins into concerned grimaces, slipping back.

“Why do people keep adding shit to it?” I ask no one.

The Vermont air kisses me back. 

I squat behind a fresh bush, buttocks high, and let go.

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Look, it's a 517 word flash fiction I would like to put on the internet, so here is some blather to reach Reedsy's word requirement. There's a lot of trash tossed into the webs, I might as well add mine!

Ok, I tire of this. Here's the story again to fill the word count, in case you didn't mind it and want to take a second gander. Thank you for reading! Mi pitiful writer soul pulses at the possibility it might be liked....I imagine you know how it is...an eternal quest to be HEARD and SEEN and oh I don't know...APPRECIATED. RAA RAA RAAAAA!

I appreciate YOU dear reader! There, isn't appreciating each other lovely! I appreciate you potentially appreciating me. If you'd like me to read your stuff, send a line!

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The Rest Stop

“I need to pee,” I pronounce. 

My passengers sigh in syncopation. Irene, in all her engaged majesty, gruffs.

 “O, c’mon Hilary, hold it. We’re almost at the border.”

I cast a long, languid side eye in her hunched direction. 

“Irene, it’s been two hours. I am human, after all.” Wryly, “and I need to be loved.” 

She’s loud in her silence; her clenching tensing me more than my own nether-y urges. 

We keep rolling down the pine lined highway, open windows airing out the final hours of an abysmal bachelorette getaway. All that’s left is my overwhelming urge to get away. And pee. 

A blue rest sign fifteen miles ago promised me relief. I tunnel vision, accelerate methodically, lick the upper limits of the law. We lean into a curve. Another blue beacon emerges, beckons, coaxes. I gratefully peel off the route, unable to bear neither the inner nor outer tension much more. Irene’s new friends tolerated what I no longer could: the stomping, the tantrums, the pushing my piping hot cappuccino up into my face in an attempt to rush me. The endless mother-lover seeking projections. The not finding confusing-a-picture-of-an-air-mattress for-an-ice-cream-sandwich funny. The disapproval of my male stoner partner, since “there are better people out there” for me, anyway. The fault lines are clear, and I’m slipping past the cracks of her control. 

I slow down the ramp. An athletically tanned woman stomps away from a porta-a-potty, her bewildered partner trailing in the wake of her high pony. 

I park with a jolt, break free from the car’s confines. 

“I guess we’ll wait he-” but I’m past Irene’s muttering, rushing to the nearest receptacle.  

Roomy I think, wrenching open the disabled option. This won’t be so–

A mound of shit prevails well past the lip of the shiny black toilet seat, glistening in the doorway sun. Two emerald flies glint pleasantly on its soft peak, little gems bejeweling a crowning monstrosity. 

I hurl myself from the door, gagging, buckling over, heaving. Laughter streams from my face. I gasp for air and sense. 

Irene’s passengers leave the conditioned car’s purity.

 “Are you ok?” One asks.

“Do you need help?” Another offers.

“What’s going on?” Irene pushes past her maidens, demanding an answer.

“I– I—” I suck in air, hoping to expel the putrid memory from my lungs. “I— ahhha–the—'' 

I can’t even begin, where did it start, where can it end. 

I point a shaky finger “It’s– too—so—much,” my legs tremble with each wheezing giggle.

One passenger daringly approaches. 

“No, you don’t want to–” I manage to spit out, the buckling ceasing. “It’s shit. It’s shit upon shit upon layers of shit. A mountain of shit.”

Irene freezes. “Oh gross Hilary, stop, why is that funny.” Her eternal humourlessness propels her away, and she throws herself back into the car.

I watch her friends peel off, sorting their sheepish grins into concerned grimaces, slipping back.

“Why do people keep adding shit to it?” I ask no one.

The Vermont air kisses me back. 

I squat behind a fresh bush, buttocks high, and let go.