The Difference Between Karley and Me

These are the songs they fell in love to on those sweltering summer nights. They held hands on threadbare couches in a garage in Southern Florida. Their breath on each other's necks felt like the humid air that blanketed the peninsula: wet, sticky, anxious. And their fluttering heartbeats matched the snare drum that echoed through the lo-fi radio. They watched mosquitos swarm the stagnant puddles that littered the sidewalk; leftovers from that afternoon's torrid storm. They cuddled closer, fearing not for mosquito bites. The bitter scent of burning citronella reassured them that the demons would not detect the sweet smell of sweat their bodies so earnestly produced.

These are the same songs they fell in bed to, miles away in the cool mountain air; air that matched the indifference floating about them. The sheets moved in time with the sway of the guitar, the rise and fall of their chests followed the din of the bassline. Their passion peaked as the melody flowed, but passion wasn't enough to take the chill off the room. And as they both rolled over, their hearts sinking to their stomachs the way those Floridians sunk deeper into their couches, they feared for the chiggers' creative use of the holes in the window screen. But a candle blazed and there was some melancholy comfort in the way the bitter scent of the sweat on their bodies made the burning citronella smell sweet.