AroAce Babyface

Story of meeting a one-time, good-time friend and running away with them, as far as we needed to go.

“If you get hit by a car,

“I’m not going back to pick up the pieces.”

I met them at a Girl Scout event outside of

DC, which my mom was asked to work.

They had a little sister; I was

teaching her to pick crabs when

they ran up with a waterbottle, coated

in libfem sticker trash, and

a bag of frozen peas

wrapped in a towel held against their chin.

The waterbottle was for the girl; she

took big gulps and told me she was

diabetic. Her big sibling had gotten

fucked by the butt of a rifle earlier today,

because they told their dad they were

going to Girl Scouts and he said, “Oh,

so you’re a pedophile now too?” And

they cracked their knuckles against his

ribs and he beat them back with the force of

a hunter. They were aro ace agender and had

been driving for five years even though they

looked no more than twelve. I reheated congealed

butter over a fire. We fit together like a glove

on a foot, and when I ran across the

four-lane forty-mile-an-hour roadway,

across which my car was parked, they shouted

at me. “I’m not going to pick up the pieces.”

I touchdowned by my car and glanced across

the street. They stood there, bag of melting peas

limp in hand, the purple/blue/yellow of the

bruise clear even across four car lengths.

I wondered if they were going to follow me,

and got in the driver’s seat, revved the engine.

A knock on my window. I clicked the locks off

and they climbed in the back, said,

“Just around the corner and back, driver,

I need to pick up my sister later.” And I said,

“Just to Wawa’s and back, baby.”