Heartbreaker by Maryse Meijer Page A

hot: I thought I knew how it felt. I thought how lucky the forest was, to feel her so thoroughly, so deeply; it wanted her, it gave no resistance. It had been dry for so long. You’re welcome , I told it.
    I had a fox this morning, she confessed. And rabbits. Hundreds of rabbits. The birds drop down before I even touch them. They curdle in their nests.
    I’m so glad, I said, inhaling the faint tang of scorched flesh and fur among the perfume of hot rock and charred wood. Such richness! She should have all of it and more, I thought; I wanted to drape her in meat and wood as a man might drape a woman in diamonds.
    I lay there for as long as I dared, recklessly abandoning the mask for minutes at a time, gulping great lungfuls of smoke; when I coughed my saliva was black.
    You’re inside me already, I marveled.
    Yes, John, she sighed. Isn’t it nice?
    *   *   *
    I packed my van with my maps and a radio, a blanket, and a few cans of beans; she was on the move. For days I drove, my radio going nonstop with news of her direction, speed, appetite; I matched it mile for mile, working my way as close to her borders as was allowed. The relentless heat sucked the sweat from my skin; the driver’s seat was constantly damp, as were the blankets I slept on in the rear. I tied a bandanna around my head, and no matter what I ate I tasted only ash and salt.
    Though the emergency security cordons kept me at a distance she felt closer than ever, striking the landscape wherever I looked: she was 20,000 acres strong, then 50,000, then 100,000. She was the biggest, the most devastating news, raging behind every bewildered bleached-blond reporter, flaming the front pages of all the newspapers. There were a thousand firefighters struggling helplessly against her, eating up millions of tax dollars, unable to halt her astonishing progress. Buckets of flame retardant were flown overhead and tipped along her back; I could hear her laughter as they struck her, harmless.
    Look at you, I said, fanning the newspaper clippings across the floor of the van. The satellites can see you from space!
    What’s space? she asked.
    It’s everything around us that’s not a thing.
    She sighed. I want that, she said. I want all of it.
    You’ll have it, sweetheart, I assured her. It’s already yours.
    Yay, she said.
    Yay, I echoed. I could feel her smiling, and I could see it, too, in the trees, at the very top, all mouth when she wanted to be, at other times all hands, or legs, dancing in the wind.
    *   *   *
    But as well as I knew her, as constantly as I tried to anticipate her needs and satisfy them, I did make the occasional mistake.
    How’s the woods this evening? I asked one night, early on in our relationship; we were in the habit of eating dinner together after I’d parked for the night, me in the front seat, her blazing off in the distance.
    Delicious, she said. What are you having?
    Egg salad, I told her. The gas-station sandwich was maybe a little spoiled from sitting on the dash all day, but I ate it anyway, then washed it down with the first thing at hand: old water from a half-gallon jug I’d found beneath the front seat.
    What’s that? she asked.
    I paused, the water glugging in the jug. What’s what?
    That sound , she hissed.
    I was just—drinking something.
    Water?
    Well—
    Don’t! she shrieked.
    Sorry, sorry, I said, capping the jug and tossing it out the window, wincing when it hit a boulder.
    Gosh, John, I mean, really!
    I’m sorry. I’m stopping, I stopped. Okay? Honey?
    There was only the sound of the tires on the road, the whip of passing cars. I glanced in my rearview mirror, but saw only smoke, no flame.
    Hey, I said. Talk to me.
    I’m busy.
    Busy what?
    Burning!
    Of course, I said. I’m sorry.
    Another silence, and then: Turn on the radio, she gusted gently. We gasped with pleasure when we heard the chorus of our favorite song,