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. I gasp at the lurch, unable to bear neither the inner nor outer tension much more.

I’m not exactly sure when the first fault line appeared. After college, perhaps. I missed some calls, texts got lost. When I finally picked up, I cast doubt that a long distance friendship could realistically last. Irene howled and clung on, compelling my catlike instincts to detach, humoured nonetheless at the extent of desire to keep me. I dismissed my mistake, blaming the familial disruptions my therapist insisted I dig through. “It’s not you,” I promised. 

Irene drums the sideboard. A bridesmaid mentions how refreshing the wind is. I purse my lips, nod and keep a steady foot on the gas.

Maybe the foundation shifted when I wouldn’t drive the three hours to consecutive birthday parties, my late driving bloomers damp at the prospect of navigating a gridless colonial city. “You’ll still go to Vermont,” she hissed, and I felt the wind in my hair, drifting off into the deciduous distance, my new boyfriend by my side. 

My groin groans, and I clench my teeth. Irene clutches the passenger bar. Someone passes around some fruit gummies. Irene asks if there’s gluten in them.

Then again, there were those endless mother-lover seeking projections to contend with. Her mother had problems, (cue fucked-up family bonding), and a taste for unsavory herb-n-swill loving men. The mother and rotation of partners would languish on the couch while little Irene would make her third boloney sandwich of the day, stale Wonderbread dessicating hopes. And so she sought us out, sturdy, broad chested women who’d hold her close while she cried and whimpered about the slightest diminishment. 

“HILLARY!” Irene barks as I speed past a drifting pick-up truck.

“Just trying to get us home,” I grit, clasping the wheel.

Of course, I lost the weight of loneliness, and Irene disapproved. “There are better people out there for you,” she spat when I mentioned an engagement on the horizon. She stormed out of our home when he lit up, activated beyond repair, unable to separate her pasts and presents. I shrugged and let her get lost, settling back into my love’s arms, giggling at the adult cartoons she despised. A couple of days later, in a gummy-haze I confused a picture of an air mattress for a $250 ice cream sandwich, sharing my misfortune in her bridal chat. Someone cry-emoji’d, another sent a gif, and Irene chided me privately, “It wasn’t funny. Don’t do that again.” 

Another blue beacon emerges, beckons, coaxes. Ten miles…

The first night of the best weekend evvaaa ended in me tucking myself in nice and early. Upon arrival, we marveled at the AirBnB mansion chosen by Irene’s newest mother, an overflowing, bosomy, fleshier lass. We sat round the banquet table, sipping chamomile, Irene at the head, Mother at hand. Mother informed us of the itinerary, and I dutifully, as Maid of Honour, got sleepy. The two led a gossip about an ancillary’s friend’s ultimatum to her partner, cawing that he didn’t really love her. I noticed their greed for fodder, recalled a regrettable late night confession to Irene about my civil union. Heart pounding, I posited; “Isn’t he a product of divorce?” They sliced me with their eyes. I pressed, “You ultimately don’t know the conversations that go on between two people.” Jaws drop, “What’s been accepted. What’s been understood.” Irene’s medically tight sphincter almost popped. A maid contorted in glee. Mother added a tally.

A cop car lurks in the underbrush. I slow ever so slightly, back to the courtesy buffer zone. Irene sniffs, “I’m feeling bloated.”

The next morning, Irene’s tummy bothered her. They crowded around her, Mother delegating for tisanes, compresses. As her oldest friend, I leisurely unrolled the cleanest yoga mat to work out the pain in my side. I merged into the kitchen to get my tea. When I returned, Irene was happily posing as a child on my mat, my book shoved to the side. “Get another one, Hill,” she chirped.

I slipped downstairs, microfiber socks gathering dirt.

In the evening, we performed as women, but my crooked eyeliner and dusty lids left eyes sore. Mother asks if I have heels; I stay in my high tops. Mother teaches me to push up my tits within my bra; I’m amazed at this simple knowledge. In the uber I ask for more tips. Mother clips, “Use liquid next time.” Irene is wedged between the two of us, her tiny frame holding back. “Primer, too.”

I was bored at the strip club – how much taint can one girl handle?– and after the fifth hour, wondered what else Quebec City could offer. All was well though; Irene, engulfed in her lesbian polyamorous awakening with two twee tumblr girls, was happily ever after, nary a stomachache nor groom in sight. I spent $10 with an emaciated Franco-fied Amy Winehouse. It was fine, but not in my budget. A curvier, black bikini’d hair metal girl caught my eye. Mother, noting our tight purses and lips, flung dollars on the table to fund indulgence. I looked away, unsure of the strings attached, afraid of unlocked desire. I knew who I was, even without the experience, needing neat lines and a stable life, mind naturally unbidden. My partner said, “Have fun.” I was content. On the way out, Irene meaningfully stared into me, “How was it, Hill?” I replied, “I can’t believe it’s 3 am. So much flesh.” Irene cast salt in my eyes as a little rain pattered.

The highway curves to the left. Sun flits through the clouds.

“Are you sure these gummies are gluten-free?” Irene condemns. “Look –” she grabs my elbow- “I’m huge.”

I jerk away from her bones. “Please don’t. I’m driving.”

She glares. “We need to stop. I need some air.” 

“Yup.”

We purged ourselves at the sauna the next morning. I kept a distance, prioritizing my own routines of cardiac hazing cultivated by a Russian father over their feeble fanning. No communal room could approach 100℃, but I gently pushed people out with each leisurely ladle on the stones. The ladies in waiting hurried to calmer climes, and I was soon lost in steamed relief. Outdoor ice water plunges seized my heart. I gulped in city air, the clear sky finally settling my nerves. “Hillarryyyy,” Irene pleasantly smiled in front of her maids at the cafe, “Where were youuuuuu?” 

The meal was anemic at best, Irene’s psychosomatic dietary restrictions dictating choice. Sure, I ordered another cappuccino at the end, not anticipating the fifteen minute delay. It arrived in a dishwasher-hot mug to scraped plates and fidgety seats. Irene, scanning the expectant smiles, pushed the scalding drink to my face, bottoms up. “C’mon Hillary, drink.” I spat the liquid on her hand, tongue scalded, restraint dissolved. “Oops,” I smirked. Irene bridled.

A bump on the road rattles the car; Mother tuts. 

Irene clutches her tummy. “You ok, babe?” Mother frets. 

I yawn. 

A prisoner’s handiwork announces that at last, respite arrives. I gratefully peel off the route, my bladder bursting with joy.

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 Mother’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, nose wrinkling. “Oh gross Hilary, stop. Why is that funny.”

She propels herself into Mother. Mother cradles her shoulders, marching them back to 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, I let go.