Xzibit has planted the smallest bomb inside of a bomb which rests under the floating 2001 Toyota Corolla painted candy red with pinstripe and flames which hangs on the fuse of an even bigger bomb, the size of your apartment building. You look out the window every day and wonder when Xzibit will light the car on fire— why else would he stand in the street like this, flicking his lighter? Who’s he waiting for? you pretend to wonder, the hatchback in the air swinging like the branches of the trees. He’s waiting for you. He’s waiting for the lover who’s holed up in your bedroom these past few days— who climbed into the leather interior of the blinding rush of blood Xzibit tricked out for you— to leave your place and go back to her spouse, for you to be alone and walk into the leaf-covered street and tell him, “you were right. There is only emptiness in the mornings.” But the emptiness isn’t all there is. Not yet, not when she’s steeping her tea, admiring how the trees hold strong against autumn.
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Julián Martinez is from Waukegan, IL. Find him online @martinezfjulian or martinezfjulian.com, or IRL in Chicago. He’s not a car guy, but he loves a good sound system.