Red

by Tracy Pitts

The boy who lives across the street now has red hair and takes off his
clothes for me when our blinds are open. He touches his nose or
maybe his ear first and likes to see if I’ll follow him down to mine.

He walks up and down the street in black shorts without shoes or
socks or a shirt, dangling a rusty machete against his legs that have
been eaten by mosquitoes. When I don’t come outside, he throws
his machete into my lawn—and pulls it out.

He whispers through the fence when I’m alone in the backyard and
asks if I want to drink beer. He climbs up to lean over and lets me
taste his hands, soaked under his parents’ tap in the garage.