I fear the Deli Mart after dark. Hold my breath when I run in for milk. But in the light of day, I'm not as afraid, so I can wander the aisles as I wait for the next bus. The young man behind the counter greets me, and I ask him how he's doing.

I'm here, he answers.

Are you open all night?

We sure are.

Is it scary? I know it is. But I want to hear him say it.

*

I'm easily startled. I can't attend fireworks. I'm afraid of being shot.

*

The young man points to the ceiling with his tattooed arm. Flames lick the length of it.

What? I'm not sure what he wants me to see.

Look at the hole. It's from a .22.

I see the hole.

*

I stand before the Suzy Q's, the way I did as a child.

Get them if you want them, my father said, the cashier ringing up his cigarettes.

I looked from my father to the Suzy Q's. Back to my father.

He wants to know why I make everything so difficult.

I pick up the Suzy Q's. Put them down. My father is walking out the door.

*

I see the hole.

*

I settle for Diet Orange Sunkist even though I know that the artificial sweetener may cause irreparable damage.  

I sit at a linoleum booth. I believe it is linoleum. Who can be sure what anything is made of?

It looks like rain, says the young man to another man buying Marlboros.

My father smoked Belair 100's.

White clouds against a pale blue sky.

When he wasn't looking, I used to hold the open pack to my face. Inhaled. The sweet smell of menthol. I could never get enough.

*

I recognize the bulimic woman. She stands in front of the pizza freezer, staring. Opening and closing the glass door. Finally she chooses extra cheese, then Ruffles, a large bag, onion dip. Diet soda. She cannot look the young man in the eye.

Damn, it's crazy, he says, leaning on his elbows over the newspaper as the bulimic is walking out the door. What if the plane went down? What if the fucking plane went down?

*

The Diet Sunkist was a bad idea. It's too sweet.

*

The mourners strained to see the hole that I could see from any position in the room. Even though I didn't want to.

*

Before the funeral director closed the casket, I leaned into my father, ran my finger along the puckered mound on his right temple, half-expecting to feel his pulse. Or mine. I pressed my mouth to his cool cheek, traced his pale lips wired shut, and remembered when he told me that the walls were closing in.

*

Excuse my running commentary, the young man says, looking up from the newspaper to meet my gaze.

*

I see the hole.

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