Transaction

I used to go to a Girl Scout camp that allowed boys. They were perhaps the maintenance crew, or locals, or lifeguards that lived in the lake like endemic species. They all had boy-explorer names like Blazer, Summit and Falcon. At the end of the summer, at dusk, we would pile logs on a raft and set it ablaze on the water.
Once, Canyon and I stood on the shore and watched the fire until the embers went out. All the other girls left, casting us furtive glances on the way back to their tents. He kissed my temple and told me his dad was a drunk. I rambled on and on about all the drunks that stalked my town’s grocery store where I worked, to buy a fifth of gin and one other thing. For the woman with the stonewashed jeans and the wrinkled cleavage, the other thing was an orange. For the reeking man with the veined eyes, the other thing was a bag of pistachios. Canyon nodded. My dad buys a can of pinto beans, he said.