Dueling Banjos
Meredith Turits

She says I’m a southern girl like it explains things. But she doesn’t believe in any of that, yet
here we are in my bed, we’ve gotten up my stairs and behind this door and my hands are so far
up her skirt that you wouldn’t know I have hands if you looked quick, and she’s saying, I’m a
southern girl like it explains anything at all. Now we are wrestlers under the blankets and the
sound of the fitted sheet against her bare legs is this sort of symphonic brushing, the percussion
section of a studio apartment. She is the bedroom timpani.

She is saying something and at first I strain to listen but what comes out is not what I hear
because I know that’s not what she means. She’s trying to drown me out with the timpani and
her version of perfectly-timed church bells. But she doesn’t believe in any of those things and I
know it. Her voice has disappeared in my head, and now our bodies, too. Landscape views of
plantation fields turn vertically to accommodate high-rise buildings and here, there is no moon.
Only ambulance sirens. You use the senses you need. I use the senses I need.

My grand finale, the orchestral swell. I come to by the sound of “Dueling Banjos” and
she’s still wearing her skirt.

Meredith Turits is a senior editor at Bustle.com, and her writing has appeared in publications including Joyland, Anobium, Full Stop, Bookslut, and Glamour. She can be found in Brooklyn and @meredithturits.