The Bright Jars of Our Bodies by Sara Hills

When we run out of nice things to say to each other, Gil and I watch TV like we’re each just a brain in a jar, sitting side by side. Except instead of brains we’re hearts. And by hearts, I mean sex organs. And by sex organs, I mean all we ever do anymore is fuck.

As the commercials roll on without sound, we fuck on the sofa like we’re trying to make something, turn straw into gold, or power the grid single-handedly. And by single-handed, I mean the one I use to help me get off while Gil pounds away, lost in his moment, lighting up the jar of his body before I can catch up.

He rolls off and changes the channels while I finish, a swell that thuds instead of breaks, and I want to tell him I need more than this, than TV and deep dives that end in self-stimulation, but I’m too tired to fight.

Instead, I point to the meteor shower on the news and say, “We should go see that.”

And because he can’t think of a reason against it, Gil shrugs and drives us out into the desert, just far enough so the city lights flatten and the sky opens up.

Like in the movies, we sit on the hood of the car, propped against the bug-crusted windscreen, watching for fire in the sky, waiting for something to warm between us.

It’s not even close to romantic. I can’t stop thinking about the bugs, scabs of wings and guts prickling the back of my neck, and Gil keeps fidgeting with his lighter.

He flicks the steel lid open and shut, open and shut, in a way that tells me he’s thinking about his mom dying of cancer. But instead of comforting him, I say, “Look, the Dipper,” and Gil’s eyes follow my finger but he says nothing, just stretches his toes.

And then I’m thinking about the last time I saw my parents kiss before they died, the way my mother stair-stepped onto my father’s toes to reach his face. And it makes me want to keep trying.

So I put on my trying face and say, “I’m sorry about your mom.”

And Gil says, “You hate my mom.”

And I say, “Yeah, but… cancer,” because that’s all I can think to add. And then I remember cancer is a constellation, so I squint at the stars some more, but all I see is a mess of white dots, blinking and unblinking.

And when I look back at Gil, he’s staring at me, but I can tell he’s lost in his own moment with a strange look in his eyes, like in the movies, right before the person says this isn’t really working or maybe we’re better off as friends, except Gil and I never really were friends, just lovers, so I panic and do what I always do when I start to feel afraid—I start tugging at his zipper.

And I think about the bright jars of our bodies and the bugs in my hair, and how maybe this could be romantic, here in the desert, under the stars, except Gil’s still soft as a tongue inside my mouth, and though I’m trying to get him interested, I keep picturing my mother stepping up and my father whirling her around, kissing like nothing else mattered, two hearts inside the same jar, lit from the inside, like how cancer looks on an x-ray, a spark that just keeps growing, whirling and splitting off, like a constellation forming inside a person. And Gil’s not wrong; I hate his mother. I hate the way she says my name and the way she shows up unannounced and folds his laundry, and I hate how she looks at me with such disapproval because it reminds me of the way he’s looking at me now, on the hood of his Dodge, like I’m just a nobody, desperate for some kind of fire, even if it’s just a glimpse of dust streaking through the sky.

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SARA HILLS — Sara is the author of The Evolution of Birds (Ad Hoc Fiction, 2021), winner of the 2022 Saboteur Award for best story collection. Her flash-length stories have been taught internationally in schools and workshops as well as widely published in anthologies and journals, including The Best Small Fictions, SmokeLong Quarterly, Bath Flash Fiction Award, Fractured Lit, Cease Cows, Flash Frog, New Flash Fiction Review, Fictive Dream, and elsewhere. Originally from the Sonoran Desert, Sara lives in Warwickshire, UK. Find her online at sarahillswrites.com.

Art by SHERRY SHAHAN — Sherry is a teal-haired septuagenarian who studies pole-dancing in a small California beach town. Her art lives in books, magazines, newspapers, literary journals and anthologies. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize in Poetry and Short Fiction.