From a Wrangler’s Back Pocket

The steers don’t care.

Out here, nobody does.

He can’t use a bot to check his work. That’s the point—only Pa’s too stingy to send a Colliebot out with the herd, sending his only son instead to mind them on the range. Alone.

He can spot other herds in the distance, some with three or four of the damned contraptions keeping them close.

He just has his trusty mount, his sorry self, and this here tube of lipstick.

His hand shakes as he applies the pale pink.

He can’t trust a bot, can’t trust anything but the puddle made by some bull’s hoofprint to admire the result.

He looks… pretty. Different.

He can’t tell if it’s the lipstick or the lack of surveillance. He doesn’t know if it matters. If a bot spots him, he’ll be reported. Facial aberration on a known male subject.

First would come the med-drones.

Then the sheriff.

He’s a fool not to wipe it off.

It just smells so good. Slightly floral. Tastes like a daydream. He doesn’t want to be the only one to taste it.

He imagines the roughness of another pair of Wranglers, rasping against his own. The heat between. The glide of lipstick, skin on skin.

He gets so lost in almost-was, he doesn’t hear the telltale whir approaching.

Only the sharp blip of facial recognition.

The beep of an identified aberration.

The click of a signal, sent far and wide, trying to help.

The bitter, bitter end.

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Alyssa Buchthal is an LA-based writer whose works center queer Americana, primarily themes on identity, perception, and power. Alyssa’s poetry and prose have been recognized by Pipeline Artists, Globe Soup, The Australian Writers’ Centre, and Writing Battle.