Rodeo — Detroit. Robert Frank. 1955-56.
"Betty, let's go get a Coke," directed Kathy.
She's always been the boss of me.
"I got it, baby," said Jim, resting the cigar in his mouth with one hand and placing the other on the small of Kathy's back. She mooned at his touch. I could feel her arrogance. With his cigar hand, Jim reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Using both hands, he gave Kathy a dollar and winked at her. She smacked her gum and spun around.
Taking a few steps and not turning around, she said, "Betty?"
Who do I tell first? Will Jimmy care? Will he lie? I still can't believe he touched me like that. Like. That.
"Hi," said Kathy, flirting with the stand clerk, twisting her foot like pop top. "Two cokes."
Why's every boy gotta look at her like that? Why's she gotta be like that but I'm the one who ends up like this?
She'll kill me. She kill me for sure.
"Here," she handed me my Coke, sweaty from the cold meeting the heat. The straw bobbed around, unsure of where to float. The red stripe on the side swirled in the breeze.
Looking past Jim, I watched the bull buck the rider. The muscles in his neck strained as if they would burst with any deeper effort. Out the side of my eye, I watched the sweat drip down Jim's neck, from his hat, past the collar of his striped shirt. The muscles of his shoulders stuck to his shirt where the sweat pooled up. The bull dug his hooves into the dirt, blowing up a cloud that blanketed the crowd to the opposite of us.
Kathy rested her head on Jim's shoulder as she sipped her Coke.
Jim sucked on his cigar.
Maybe I’m the one with all the power. After all, I know what he did with his hands. And I choose what comes next.