Rapture took the shape of bitter salt cuts from rounded but not soft edges the first time I had salt
and vinegar chips as a preteen. I rode Richard’s blue dirt bike to the 7-11, a hand-me-down steed,
and wrapped a scarf I had found on the side of the road around the handlebars so people would
know it was a girl’s bike. Danny was in the 7-11 along with Drew, and I liked them both but
Danny better. Together we pooled enough money to buy comics and chips, and I grabbed the
blue bag because it was pretty like how sprinklers cast rainbows against sunny skies during July
mornings. Summer lasts forever when you’re a kid.

On the ride to Danny and Drew’s house the scarf tangled in the tires and I was thrown from the
seat: bucked off the dirt bike like it was one of the horses I always wanted to learn how to ride.
Sacredness was Danny picking the gravel from the red indents in my wet palms as I held back
tears; and we gauzed the road rash on my right knee with the bike-scarf. I limped off the asphalt.

On the cement curb, the three of us sat drinking yellow Gatorades; Danny’s hand on my back. I
ate the chips for the first time, stinging sour small scores against the corners of where my mouth
eventually flowered into a smile. I plugged my tongue into the nook of my lips to taste the
saltiness of little hurts. God rays beamed through a pocket of cloud separating the sky into
segments. Danny’s hand was sweaty, but he held it still on the small of my back.