Rhienna Renèe Guedry is a Louisiana-born writer and artist who found her way to the Pacific Northwest, perhaps solely to get use of her vintage outerwear collection. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Empty Mirror, Bitch Magazine, Screen Door, Scalawag Magazine, Taking the Lane, and elsewhere on the internet. Find more about her projects at rhienna.com or @chouchoot on Twitter.
Our rescue dog thinks we are people who never go anywhere. When we do: faces covered, shoes a novelty; one of us to do the foraging, the other finds the outside world a challenge. Would you agree? This poor no-tooth Papillon thinks this is who we are and always have been. Babe, it’s summer already. I have meandered only a small footprint, mostly walking the dog as the buses rattle by—more like a flatbed truck dragging chains than a chariot; neon fuschia makes it look and sound like a rave. I used to be into that, only now I don’t want to sit near anyone, I dance alone in the attic with the party light I stole from an office cabinet before quitting. I miss my body moving in that way: in motion, and in theft. But we have always had a rule: no talking about transportation when we’re drinking, or otherwise. Bus stops give me a pang of FOMO; I miss a commute that doesn’t matter, I miss a vessel that’s now rendered a vector for danger. Now we drink and list all the planes, buses, and trains we’d get on if we could. I miss strapping down the luggage of you: destined somewhere together, doing it so well we have caught past-life streams of ourselves. Now it is you in the kitchen, and I in the garden or back in the attic feeling sorry for myself. I still hear when the bus passes by. Our dog wonders where you’ve been when you’re only out back. I wonder what our first city will be. Every thirty minutes, by my count; we will embark.