Burning Season

I rubbed my belly and fought the urge to vomit. Roy was late, like usual. It was one of the many reasons my father hated him. I covered my face with my scarf and coughed. The air was thick with smoke and smelled like rotting oysters.

I hate the burning season, when the farmers set fire to the sugarcane, blackening the sky with soot and smoke and coating my lungs like burnt honey.

My heart skipped when the headlights broke through the blackness.

"Where to?" Roy asked as I sunk into the passenger seat of his Mustang.

"Anywhere but here," I mumbled.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his smile quickly fading.

"Nothing. I just don't feel good."

"Oh, right. Oyster smoke?"

I nodded.

"How 'bout the harbor?"

"Perfect." I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes, trying to come up with the right words.

But there were none.

"Better?"

"Yeah," I managed, dangling my legs over the edge of the pier and breathing in the salty air.

He leaned into me, his lips brushing my neck, and his fingers digging into my thigh through my jeans. I shrugged, shaking him away.

"Roy... we have to talk."

His eyes filled with a mixture of hurt, fear, and anger, unsure what was coming.

I sighed, trying once more to find the right words.

"Just say it, Sara," he spat at me after a long silence, assuming I was breaking up with him.

If only it were that simple...

"Roy... I'm late."