You Hold It

you feel it: you hold it. you sit in the back seat while she works at the register. through the window you watch her feet move on the dirty white tiles of the liquor store. the styrofoam cup warm between your thighs. she let you have some three hours ago.

you're nine. you drank it black because that's how she takes it & now your legs quiver. you promised.

the keys dangle behind the mirror on a lanyard too high for you to reach. Customers Only. she can't leave the register when your dad is finally out for his first meal of the day & you know this.

you press your knees together. sweat at the fold of your legs. watch a man buy a pack of Marlboros & a bottle of Hennessy. watch your mother smile through foreign phrases.

you squirm and you pray. the car smells like cigarettes & the cherry air freshener that stopped working ages ago. you hold it.

you could go to the bathroom at the gas station across the street. the one with no code, just a door that doesn't lock right. but that would mean leaving the car & that would mean she'd see the empty backseat & that would mean—

you hold it. you press your forehead to the window & watch her move through the aisles wiping down wine bottles already clean. she doesn't turn toward the car. this is also how she misses you.

the styrofoam cup now sits empty. you can feel the soft spot where your lips touched. the same place as hers.

you pee in it.