It Was All About the Same Damn Thing
by Jo Varnish
It was about rain, and not movie-type powerful rain, but the ordinary, underwhelming rain, about puddly roads and wet, decaying fliers against the curb. It was about dogs barking, one deep big woof woof woof, another lighter, higher pitch: uff, uff, uff, in the distance. It was about the train—or more truly, the tracks—running across the high street and off towards the city, begging to be followed. It was about betrayal. It was about her friend’s dad, slowing beside her, offering a ride, No sense in getting drenched! It was about his car, the glove box that didn’t close, the Marlboros in the gap under the radio. It was about his face, a tightening perhaps, something strained in his expression when he stopped to let her out. It was about instincts. It was about Madonna and George Michael and INXS in our magazines, on our radios. It was about the sleepover and striped pajama bottoms and a soft yellow t-shirt and Milk Duds and MTV and melon-scented lip balm. It was about the sound of the train itself now, the hum and the clack. It was about the nighttime. It was about thirst, about tiptoeing to the kitchen. It was about a glass of water. It was about her friend’s dad. It was about him pushing her small frame against the fridge, his hand under the yellow cotton, on her breast, his mouth reeking of beer and entitlement. It was about secrecy. It was about pretending that she was protecting him only to protect herself. It was about friendship. It was about shame, the kind whose diluted acid takes its time to burn a hole through the stomach lining. It was about leaving. It was about her friend’s dad’s face in the boy at the Barcelona hostel who wouldn’t hear her say no, his face in the colleague who leaned too closely, whose fingertips moved too freely, his face in the man who called her names—whore, bitch, slut—because she didn’t want him. It was about repercussions. It was about how far the train could take you, and how far you still had to go. It was about loss. It was about miserable drizzling rain whose drops weren’t fat enough to be movie rain. It was about yesterday’s mind racing into today and tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow. It was about injustice. It was about loneliness. It was about waking cold and clammy, about bracing for every touch, about blocking out and swallowing down, about pretending and about failing, about the melon scent and the cool of the fridge on her back. It was all about the same damn thing.
Originally from England, Jo Varnish now lives outside New York City. She is the creative nonfiction editor at X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine and creative nonfiction contributing editor at Barren Magazine. Her short stories and creative nonfiction have recently appeared in PANK, Hobart, Jellyfish Review, Pithead Chapel, JMWW Journal, and others. Jo has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes and Best Small Fiction, and is working on her PhD. She can be found on twitter @jovarnish1.
