What Returns

I filled the tank at Palmetto.

Sister's car, the nozzle clicking in,

numbers climbing past $30, past $35.

The smell hit—

unburned fuel and hot metal,

the kind of smell

that moves through your sinuses

like a hand reaching back,

like a version of yourself

still waiting

in the parking lot

of who you were.

I used to come here constantly.

Twenty-two and broke and certain

I'd be someone else by now.

Certain I'd leave it behind.

The nozzle clicked off.

I replaced the cap.

But the smell wouldn't leave.

On my hands,

on my shirt,

in my hair probably—

the kind of smell

that doesn't wash away,

that reminds you

that all the places

you've been

are still living inside you,

waiting,

and you're still there,

still pumping gas,

still wrong about

the future.

Sister came out with coffee.

"Thanks for doing that,"

she said.

I didn't tell her

I'd forgotten how,

that I'd spent months

trying to be someone

the smell wouldn't find,

and here I was,

my hands reeking,

back where I started,

the same smell,

the same certainty,

the same small

failure to become

anything different.

I washed my hands at home.

Twice.

The smell stayed.