There is a moment where I don’t know him. When his eyes squeeze shut in anger. When disappointment colors his cheeks red and he howls at the the sky. The whole of him curls around my leg, maple skin soft, the flesh beneath not yet knotted by life’s travels. my skin is darker, traveled. My fingers knotted and knowing as they slither into that spot just above his breast.
I press down. His howls deepen to a low chuff chuff. His eyes open, and the anger breaks apart into a furl of laughter. Soon his flesh will be traveled, his skin worn. Soon his happiness will not be as simple to gain as a touch. But now, in this space, I can make everything okay.
Some Thoughts:
- I come from fiction, from the land of short stories, but I don’t know I never lived there fully. I never gave it a real go as a career. I don’t know that I am past my time as a wide market short writer, but I do want to think about it some more and maybe focus a few months on purely that.
- At the risk of alienating readers, I support Chad Johnson and I don’t feel that his wife is being honest about what happened that night in that very tiny car. The evidence, as I heard and read it, supports his assertion as much as hers. The truth is likely in between. Was she struck? Maybe. Was it largely accidental in a heated moment? Likely. In such a small space I imagine she got right up in his face. I imagine he turned away, she edged forward, he turned around in anger, maybe even somewhat hoping to draw contact. He did draw contact and found his life ended. Not his physical life. not yet. Though if you follow the media about this, he is being turned into a pariah. Given his need to be loved, he might end up killing himself. I hope not. Chad is good peoples from what I’ve seen.