Ma'i

The first coyote to be born into the world was given the name Ma’i. Guiltless and prowling, he stalked the nights without conscience. Ma’i was nervous, hungry. So was the man I fell in love with when I was not quite sixteen. On all fours, he encircled my silent,trembling frame, observing my every angle before pouncing. I saw his eyes flash yellow before his lips collided with mine, enveloping any and all words I could have gasped. My heart raced, my breathing grew shallow, jagged.

It had been nearly a year since I had last slept. He came to me in the time of the Santa Anas, born to Los Angeles Octobers like Ma’i to the desert. Existing to lick through my long, dry fingers and begin fires in the California hillsides, the Santa Anas blew ashy breath onto the dry sprigs of fall, blew newspapers out of stands and into the streets, blew something dangerous and dirty into the season. They were the mile marker of new history to begin. The Santa Anas have devastated thousands of lives. I should not have listened to the winds. My mind and body have always been overcome by the sensation that the dry, desert winds are pushing me around at fifty, sixty-five, eighty miles an hour. I cannot think of the last time I have taken something slow. Forgetting how to tip toe has become a problem; where others step cautiously, I jump, I dance, I fall, I fall, I fall.

“So, are we dating now?” I ask.

The boy looks up at me hungrily, pants, nods yes, the green in his irises showing his human side, saliva contained within his mouth for now. I pat him on the head, and fall asleep. I do not dream, but I wake up and he is still behind me, his head nodding into the back of my neck. I try to get off the couch to make myself some breakfast; it is past five o’clock, the fading orange sun is shining through the blinds. He snarls, his hands gripping my waist. I gently move them, finger by finger, until he is relaxing alone on his back; one arm flopped over his head, shielding his eyes from the evening sun. I pace my kitchen alone, searching for crackers, thinking about the coming Monday at school. My stomach is in knots. His girlfriend will be there, and I do not want to spend the rest of my sophomore year labeled as the rat, the gutter-trash-nobody, Whitney-Who? I peek over the edge of the sofa. He is breathing through his mouth now, sighing softly and kicking his socked-feet. Smiling, I pat his head again. He is sort of cute, despite the large nose taking up half his face, his wide forehead, his bad skin, his lopsided haircut, a Mohawk-gone-wrong. Ignoring the warning signs—his current relationship, his lack of self-confidence, the Santa Ana winds—I like him. I shake off the feeling that Monday is going to be a disaster, and work on getting this kid on my couch a ride home.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.