“For Ahmaud Arbery, An Unarmed Black Jogger Killed for Allegedly Looking in the Window of a House Under Construction,” Michael Meyerhofer
I was twenty-two, white, in love that day I wasn’t shot for trespassing. It happened nearly two decades ago. We started out in the backseat of her parents’ oxblood Subaru, heading back from the country club with bellies full of prime rib and vegetables I could not name. Then her father touched the brake, pointed to a mansion being built beyond a phalanx of dogwoods, timbers stacked like wine-washed bones on a generous plot of Iowa soil. The crews had already gone home, just some golden tape left behind. So we pulled over, got out, explored— her father darkly pinstriped, her mother sporting a heavy rosary of pearls. Before long, neighbors spotted us and waved, smiling from their houses. Unfazed, my girlfriend and I slipped away and touched primally in what might have been a stranger’s future bedroom, its walls unmade. After a great while, we reunited beside half a staircase. Her parents forgave our absence with a shrug and the suggestion of frozen yogurt. On the way back, I could smell her on my fingers, which made her blush. Meanwhile, her parents shared daydreams of their own mansion with taller floors and windows, thicker drapes to block the sunset.
