First Drafts: 2438 Miles

First Drafts is a sorta-new series I'm starting where I post the first draft of a premise and see if it sticks. Thank you for reading these rough drafts. Any and all notes are welcome.

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Like JPEGMAFIA once sang, “Jesus forgive me, I’m a thot.”

I don’t yearn for companionship often, but I do love attention. It’s the only reason I still use dating apps. I log on bi-weekly or when I’m in a new part of town and await a lover of bears or black men to strike up a conversation - or more realistically they “woof” or “flame” me. It’s amazing to realize queer men are keeping the legacy of the “Facebook poke” alive.

~~~

The breeze jostles the flowers decorating a small garden in a northern California backyard balancing out the blazing sun and allowing for a pleasant day to relax, away from the stress of renovating the kitchen. The hammock swaddles Nathan as his husband paces inside and consults on the phone with a contractor about a missing part. His white skin reflects the sun as he plays with his slight but evident bulging belly. Being an aging twink never occurred to him until now. He had no one else to compare himself to, his husband always joking that they looked like the number 10 side by side. However, since moving coast to coast, they were more like the number 100, having recently added a second bear to their relationship. Javier started out as a friendly tour guide, but Nathan and Pete’s open relationship was all but too inviting. Investing in a king size bed was wise for sleepovers.

Using his phone to block the sun, Nathan checks to see if Javier responded yet. Nothing. It’s not surprising, he thinks, Javier’s a horrible texter. Bored, he opens Scruff; the same boring grid of San Fran gays stare back at him. Yearning for something different, he taps on his saved favorites. Then he sees a familiar profile, the green circle in the lower right hand corner. He taps it and sends a “woof.” As he waits the three hour time difference, Nathan reminisces.

It was a regular Saturday night. He was out running an errand when Pete texted him, “Come home, I have a surprise for you.” Like a Sim, Nathan canceled every other command and returned to his husband immediately. The house was quiet, only the kitchen light turned on. Their special bourbon for guests sat on the kitchen island. He peeked through the kitchen window into the backyard and saw Pete talking with a black man somewhere between their builds. The profile seemed so familiar, but it wasn’t until he turned his head to laugh that Nathan recognized him as Terry: the handsome neighbor he had been flirting with the last six months but was too timid to invite over. Simultaneously, he grew excited at his husband taking charge and the opportunity to finally enjoy a man of his dreams.

Spying Nathan through the window, Pete winked at him and motioned his head toward the bedroom. Ever responsive, Nathan ran upstairs and prepared himself. Within minutes, he was joined by his husband and Terry. They stripped and their bodies merged together, each husband eager to be fucked by their guest. It became clear to Nathan that Terry was mostly there for him, especially as they passionately grinded against each other and came together. His partner hid his disposition well by offering to get the towel. Months later, the two of them sold the house in Baltimore to pursue a job opportunity for Pete.

“Hey handsome,” Terry responds. “Long time.” 

Nathan smiles. “I know. You look bigger.”

“The pandemic treated my frame well. I’m a proper bear now.”

“Good. I love being mauled.”

Terry laughs. “I bet you do. Tryna add me to your collection.”

“I’m sure you’ll be the one in charge.” The two continue to flirt as Nathan checks inside the house. Pete is still frustrated on the phone. 

~~~

I can’t take my eyes off my phone. Every time I respond, he replies with something hornier, nastier, more perverted. I love it. Suddenly I have my keys in my hand, shoes on my feet. I walk towards the door. I check his profile again. 2437 miles, I’m already closer to him. The lengths queers will go to for connection is astonishing. 

-Word

Animation Class (3/31)

 

Drawn by Jeremy Vanderberg

            Lola preferred to sit in the dark. It helped her relax, fewer things for her eyes to see - to study. Her mother never being one to believe in modern medicine, Lola was never diagnosed but suspected she might have ADHD and tried to use it to her advantage. As it stood, she was already second in her class and enrolled in every Honors course offered next year, but that was still two months away. 

Warm air brushed her bare feet as she looked up from her phone illuminating her face. Rowan had returned through the window and sat on the floor. “Hello, friend,” she greeted as she rolled onto her back and kept her gaze towards the screen of her phone. Rowan jumped from the floor to her bed without weighing it down and dropped himself on her chest to block her view with his jet black body. “Very cute, but let me enjoy my doom scrolling.” He placed his right front paw on her chin. “Fine! I’ll switch to the one with pictures.”

Rowan meowed with glee. He couldn’t read, after all. Repositioning next to Lola’s head, he prepared to offer comfort as she checked in on her friends.

“Let’s see. Yup, see this is why I didn’t want to log on today. Wilford’s at the beach with his family, looking pale as ever. Minnie’s taking her camping trip with her dad in the Forensic Forest, lucky bitch. At least three different kids with throwback pictures of them in oversized clothes attempting to grill. And… is that Roslyn on the moon? I knew her dad had mastery of the skies, but really? The moon.” Before her contempt transformed into full disdain, her phone slipped out of her hands and slapped her face. She turned her head toward Rowan. “You said you could catch it before it hit me.” He buried his head under his body.

As the phone slid off her, it landed screen-up between them. An ad displayed that caught Lola’s eye. She sat up on her knees and grabbed her phone, clicking immediately. Rowan cocked his head in wonder as she typed and laughed to herself. When her fingers stopped moving, her phone went dark and a loud thud sounded across the room that startled her familiar. 

Lola clapped her hands thrice and leapt off her bed as her room was illuminated by candles - from tall traditional white candles to colored, scented, stout candles. She always appreciated the variety of life. The decorations in her room ranged from Moroccan rugs to Russian dolls to South African paintings to Japanese manga to a two-day old half eaten tamale she was saving. But in the center of it all was her work station, and atop it sat a new mysterious box reading “HelloGhoul” Rowan was wary of.

“Relax; it’s just my new class kit,” she said as she strained to lift her ten gallon cauldron from under her desk. Rowan helped her lift by nudging the bottom with his head. Once three feet off the ground, the cauldron’s stand appeared. “You know how… unchallenged I get. Besides, this will probably help me get an edge up against Quincy Dinglewritch. Ugh, Dingle. So, you know, two birds, one stone.” Rowan’s concern grew again. He ran and sat next to the door in case of an emergency as he usually did when she tried a new spell. Lola prided herself on never needing this service.

Sleeves rolled up, she opened the box and speedread the instructional booklet. She scanned her room for one of the two “not included” items required. After being distracted by her bookcase, she noticed a plushie of a dog from her favorite childhood cartoon. She sat it on her desk and began adding ingredients from the box into the cauldron in the correct order. Once the last drop of snake oil was added, she reached into her pocket and kissed a locket before dropping it in. As it hissed, she uttered, “Come forth, congregate. Life blood, bring forth my great.” A puff of smoke gushed from the cauldron. A syringe levitated in place once it dissipated. 

Lola’s hand shook as she reached out for the syringe. She turned to the stuffed canine and lifted its arm to stab the armpit, injecting the serum. As she slid the needle out, the dog flung into the air and landed a backflip, coming to life. 

“D-dad? Is that really you?” Lola could feel the tears welling in her eyes and dropped the syringe back into the cauldron.

The dog clawed at its stitched mouth but quickly gave up. Instead it shook its head no, and its eyes turned a swirl of black and crimson. At this sight, Rowan immediately abandoned his post and ran downstairs.

Lola screamed as the dog doll launched towards her. She attempted to backhand it away, but it clung on to her. Thinking quickly she slammed her wrist against the cauldron until it released her. Betraying her Afro-Latino roots, she looked uncoordinated as she tried to stomp the doll out. It danced around her, anxious for a way to successfully attack her. Before it found success, Rowan snatched it with his mouth from behind. It wiggled as he trotted and dropped it in front of a white woman dressed in olive green standing in the doorway.

“What is this?” she asked as she picked it up.

Lola hesitated to come up with a lie but thought better of it. “I ordered a spell to bring dad back from the dead.”

“

Oh,” the woman replied dryly, avoiding eye contact with Lola. “You shouldn’t have done that. Well here,” she grabbed the plushie by its head and snapped its neck. “They actually start to grow cartilage after you inject them, but they’re still fragile.”

Lola whispered to herself, “So… I did it right. I knew it. But then….” She looked up, stepping towards the door. “Did you lie to me?”

“I… I’ve only ever meant to protect you. How was I supposed to tell you that he didn’t want to stay?”

“Yeah, well if that spell was any stronger, I could have died. So how ‘bout that?” Lola began to brush past her mother. “Oh, please say a few words for whatever poor soul I actually summoned. Come on, Rowan.” The familiar followed its master as she left in search of a place to feel safe.

Her mother walked to the cauldron and reached inside. Hand still dry, she pulled out the locket and opened it. “I hope you’re ready, you fool. I held her back for as long as I could.”

Word

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First Stop The Bleeding (1/31)

Terrence took a sip from his Starbucks cup as the sun abused him. His taut, baked yet somehow still pale skin sizzled as he refused to apply a SPF higher than 30. Taking a deep inhale that reeked of Jameson, he closed his eyes and stepped into the 8:19am morning rush. Before his New Balanced foot left the sidewalk, he felt a yank from behind. Terrence, finding his bare buttocks on the concrete and robe failing to keep him decent, stared up at a woman with tall curly auburn hair and skin as majestic as Nefertiti’s. “Don’t waste your privilege,” she spoke. “Live for others.” The man coughed as she beat feet and sped away, his right hand covering a cherry-colored dot as he positioned himself to maintain his balance.

        Becca’s paprika colored hair blocked her vision as she turned the library aisle. Her mother always advised she get a haircut, but she had dreams of playing Ariel on Broadway. Suddenly feeling the part, her feet betrayed her, and she fell without any padding because her hands were empty. She rolled over from feeling a pain in her abdomen and discovered a chalky colored hardcover book on the floor with crimson-rimmed pages. The title read “Underwater Acting: The Full Dark History;”  She looked up but found no one. Behind her, a pair of watchful hazel eyes faded back into the abyss as a voice whispered, “Reading is fundamental.”

Percy walked along the highway and danced his usual balancing act. No sign in hand, just good vibes and a smile. He knew cars had to slow down to pay the toll, and maybe they’d have a little extra for him. You’d figure standing right behind the booths would be more profitable, but he learned his lesson when someone threatened to “return that tarbaby from whence it came.” So he performed his balancing act on the fading white lines until noon: his self prescribed lunch break. When he hopped back to the side of the highway, he didn’t have to forage through discarded Frito-Lay products. Instead a trail of wine-stained glass shards led Percy to an ID-less wallet with cash inside. “I hate to see my brothers struggle.” He looked up and held a fist up to her.

Jenny trembled behind her podium. She was heading into Final Jeopardy within betting range of the three-week champion. “The riddum was used by many artists, but this 2003 song’s troubled call helped it stand out.” As the thinking theme played, Jenny scratched her pixie cut hair. She was an undergrad freshman that year, the song had to be tied to a memory. She searched her thoughts until a tall black woman in a trench coat and curly hair appeared before her. She wrote her message in red with her finger. “Girl, you know this. Scott used to make you sing this for him all the time. Bet it all.”  Jenny scribbled down her answer and bid. Her competitors had no idea the answer was Lumidee’s Never Leave You (Uh Oh). Amongst the production team, a woman removed her fingers from the temple of her head, smiled, and walked away. She tripped on a cord just before making it out the room, but no one noticed.

Kristi Yamacoochie clicked and clacked down the street. Her next gig was only two more blocks away as she reveled in finally making good time for a drag queen. Feeling cocky, she stopped by a hot dog cart to avoid letting her fellow performers know she actually consumed food. As she reached in her artificial cleavage to pay the vendor, a young hoodlum snatched her wig. Kristi shrieked as her wig glue failed her. She hollered and cursed as she thought about chasing them but was too hungry to do so. As she stuffed her face and plotted to get away with a bald routine that night, she felt a warm sensation as something was pulled over her scalp. “An afro is gonna look weird on an Asian queen, but I think it’ll work.” Kristi looked up and thanked the woman in the trench coat who was now removing her wig cap to reveal the frayed braids underneath. As she walked away, Kristi snapped at the impressive bloody footprints her Louboutins left.

A stray dog wandered into oncoming traffic. Most cars were able to quickly swerve out of its way as they yelled out of their windows. Confused, the dog gave up and made its home in the middle of the crosswalk. Its dingy black and white coat blended in with the street. A bus driver, already behind schedule, began to speed up to catch the yellow light before it turned red. When the bus hit the middle of the intersection, it came to a halt. Soon, passengers began to tumble to the front of the bus as the woman in the trench coat and frayed braids lifted the bus over the dog. Once she released the bus, the passengers and drivers began to form a mob to terrorize her. Her only response was, “Anybody want a puppy?” As she held up an adorable, still-blind to the dangers of the world newborn mutt. She was quickly forgiven as everyone assumed the blood on the ground came from the new mother.

Ruby exited the grocery story with three bags in her arms. Before she could step off the curb, her load got lighter as a dark skinned woman with frayed braids smiled at her through the two remaining bags. Ruby laughed and thanked her. The two walked together in silence to Ruby’s sedan. The woman in the trench coat grabbed the rest of the bags to let Ruby unlock the trunk and placed them neatly inside once she had. She continued to smile at the lady in the outdated FUBU sweatshirt. “Oh, like you’re so stylish on your way to the salon,” Ruby teased. They laughed until Ruby looked down and saw a trail of blood leading from the grocery store to her new friend. “Sis, your leg!”  

Amanda woke up in a white room, in a white bed, in a white gown. She panicked and sat up, pulling on multiple cords and IVs attached to her. She noticed strangers at the foot of her bed but none of them were dressed as a doctor. Slowly she started to recognize them as the grocery store lady, the drag queen, and the Jeopardy winner. Ruby reintroduced herself and informed Amanda that she had been bleeding since she left her house that morning. Amanda admitted she didn’t want to think about herself and got lost in her deeds. Kristi followed the trail and tried to gather everyone she helped that day, but this was the best she could do. Jenny mentioned that it was the psychic link Amanda left in her head that brought her there. Ruby and Kristi exchanged a glance and agreed to leave the room to check for a doctor, closing the door behind them. Jenny sat in the chair next to Amanda with her coat draped over it. “It’s a pretty stylish coat,” she commented as she grabbed Amanda’s hand. They smiled at each other.

Word

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Writing Wednesdays: Charles & Jr, 3rd Grade Archeologists

A blacktop playground might not seem like the most suitable option for a period of recess, but when you need it to double as the faculty parking lot, you make due with what you have. Children don't need a jungle gym when they have footballs, chalk, and their imagination. The possibilities are endless the less you're given as a child.

Charles and Jr were perfect examples of the success of such a system. Along the fence keeping the children from wandering away to the ice cream shop down the street were tiny cracks in the blacktop. If you possessed enough conviction - and strong enough rocks - you could expose the dirt underneath the asphalt, and Charles and Jr did just that. 

Having met in Kindergarten, the pair had been inseparable for four years. They inspired each other to be creative and grasp for knowledge, making them two of the smartest children in their class. On this day, the boys used their recess to see if they could break through the next layer of earth. 

"We need to find a sharper rock to get through the other side. Ugh, why didn't I bring my collection to school today?!" Charles said as he threw his pale, smooth stone to the side. 

Jr passed Charles the chipped piece of asphalt he was using. "Here you go. You have tougher hands than I do." Jr reached into his pockets and pulled out a squarish, brown rock. 

"Yeah. Yeah, this should work. Thanks," he paused to make sure no teachers were around and whispered, "bitch."

Jr giggled, happy his friend was using the naughty words he taught him after learning them from his older sister. Jr stared at him for a beat and then continued to clear around the sides of the nearly foot deep hole as Charles went back to work on cracking the base.  

Behind them, all the children of the odd numbered grades played. It wasn't that the duo was antisocial. Surprisingly they were very popular, especially after Charles stuttered through the morning announcement, Jr naturally by his side. The two just weren't athletic. During gym, instead of getting pelted with giant red balls, they would hide by the radiator on their side of the cafegymatorium and pretend they were in WWII trying to survive the bombings. The imagination these two had knew no bounds. 

A green ball crashed into their worksite, startling the young excavators. "Sorry," Rashida called out to them. 

"Throw us the ball," Sean teased them. Not having learned how to back down from a challenge yet, Charles picked up the ball and attempted to shotput it. The ball flew three feet and rolled to Rashida. 

"That was better than yesterday. Not bad." Rashida flashed a smile and ran to join Sean and the others in their bastardized version of four square. 

Jr looked on as Charles blushed over Rashida, the girl that had his first name as her last. Jr knew he was imagining his name as Charles Charles again and didn't like it. The Porteguese sidekick stood up and shook the dirt off his pants like his daydream. 

"Where are you going? We haven't gotten through to the Mesozoic era yet. I know there's a stegosaurus under this last plate!" Charles called after his friend. 

"I'm done. And you know it's not a stegosaurus. It's gonna be a triceratops. Plus, I think the bell is gonna ring soon."

Like a sound cue, the teacher on duty rung the handbell signaling recess was over. 

"I hate your sense of timing." 

Jr shook his long brown hair out of his face and messed with his friend's tight curls, running away after.  Charles gave chase for five meters before his asthma kicked in and waited for his best friend to help him. The boys walked into together, equal in every way save the limits of their imagination. 

Word

Story Time: Cab Relations

The lights whizzed by as they were consumed by the darkness around them. I was unable to make out the street signs, even from my window seat. Nate sat next to me, and Kip was next to him staring out his window. Their roommate, the birthday boy, was in the front with the cabbie. For a kid celebrating his 20^th birthday, you’d think Titus would be a little drunker on our way out, but he chatted the cabbie up like he was on his way to the office. The driver was Indian, if I remember my accents right. He seemed like a decent, honest man. I wondered how often the man drove his cab this late, gathering bizarre stories. His tall beige turban intrigued me as well.

On our way towards the bar, we almost hit a couple walking across the intersection. As he left the scene of the incident the driver said, “I hate black people. They always walk in front of my cab when I have a green light, they can’t drive, and when they’re in my cab, they’re loud and don’t tip! Not to mention, they are lazy.” He seemed to quiet down but then added, “And they always stare at my turban. Do I stare at them in their dingy doo-rags? No. I don’t. Black people infuriate me.”

            Titus looked back towards me and laughed. Obviously the cabbie didn’t see the black kid get in last and sit right behind him. “Yeah, don’t you agree, Greg?” Titus asked me. Of course what the man said could be said for some of the black people in DC, but they were still stereotypes. I didn’t fit any of those stereotypes other than the fact that I don’t tip. Reserving funds was a must.

            I passionately wished to respond and challenge the small minded immigrant, but the night was young and getting kicked out of a cab was not on my list of fun activities. So I played along and said, “Yeah, I hate those damn niggers. They’re no good.” I always joke about my race, but if any of my black friends heard me say that, they’d probably excommunicate me. Not because I agreed with the racist cab driver; because I said nigger around white folk. But for me, comedy always came before political activism. Mom never did think I had my priorities straight.

            My companions laughed for a bit, soon falling silent. I continued to stare at the man’s turban through the greasy plexiglass, wondering what might be under it. It was as big a mystery as what his wife looked like under her burqa – maybe bruises and scars he gave her. Why did he smell so strongly like curry when it was well after dinner time? How did he end up driving a taxi for a living? How did he end up in this country for that matter? He couldn’t have been a first-born American; he didn’t sound it.  Within seconds my forehead succumbed to a burning sensation.

            “Greg, you alright?” Nate asked. “You’re scowling.” I raised my cold hand to my face, attempting to distribute some of the heat. I didn’t talk for fear of my own unpopular remarks slipping out; instead I flashed my friend a reassuring “everything’s gravy” smile. Returning my gaze to the window, I saw our destination to the left. Good. I needed to drown my frustrations.

Story Time: They Called Me Nigger

I remember looking out the window of my mom’s car on the way to school at miles of trees and farm land. The South was so different from New York City. I wouldn’t find a crowded subway anywhere near here. After twenty minutes, we arrived at St. James Prep, a private all-male Catholic school. My mom always preferred private schools to public: better education and morals, she said. I left the car without saying goodbye, my mind too focused on the day before me.

            The brick porch leading to the entrance was bare; we must have misjudged the starting time. Late for my first day of high school, what a way to start the school year, I thought. Entering the building, I searched my pockets for my class schedule. I walked through the empty halls until I found my homeroom, cracking open the door and poking my head in.

            “Ah, you must be Mr. Williams,” the teacher motioned towards me. “Please, have a seat.”

            As I took my seat in the front, the only spot left, I looked at my fellow classmates. There were only three other kids the same color as me. My middle school had been much more diverse. I wondered if this was how the population of the entire school broke down. I snapped out of my thoughts as the teacher introduced herself and told us that high school would be much harder than middle school.  We were let out at the bell’s ring. I didn’t bother looking for my locker just yet since I had nothing to put in it. Besides, I felt stares from other students while walking in the hall. Was it that obvious that I was a city boy?

            The same was true for my following three classes. In Algebra, there were two the same race as me; in U.S. History, there were four of us; in English, I was on my own. It wasn’t until lunch that I saw more than ten of us at a time. My people were all sitting together at a table in the corner. I was tempted to join them, but I refused to segregate myself. As I expected, the other tables were completely made up of the majority. I tried to put my anxiety aside as I walked over to a table in the middle of the cafeteria.

            “Hi,” I said as I placed my tray down. “My name is Taylor.”

            I was greeted warmly by a boy directly across from me. “Nigga, why don’t you just sit with da rest of da crackas in da corner? You know you want to.”

            I froze upon hearing “the word.” I had never heard it much at my old school. Maybe once or twice while walking around the city but never in school. I couldn’t believe he had called me one. I thought that was something black people reserved for themselves. “You’re talking to me?” I asked.

            “Yeah you, nigga. You see anyone else without pigment in their skin at dis table?”

            “N-no.”

            “Then get ya ass to da table in da corner, then!”

            I walked in shame to the table in the corner. I wasn’t aware that integration was a crime in the South. I took my place at the White table in silence.

            “Don’t let him get to you. I hear it’s like this with every freshman class. They’ll warm up to us as the school year goes on,” a red-haired kid explained. “My name is Rufus, but you can just call me Ruff.”

            “…Are you trying to make your name sound less white?”

            “If you want to put it so bluntly, yes. I’m attempting not to get picked on for my name. Do you know how corny and white Rufus sounds?”

            “I’m Lenny,” the kid next to me interjected. “You know, I heard that once we get to be seniors, we’ll gain enough respect from the black kids to actually start using the word ourselves.”

            “You must have heard a lie,” I told him. “No self-respecting black person would let you call him the N-Word.”

            “No, it’s true.” Ruff agreed. “My older brother graduated from here last year. He said it starts with us making fun of the black stereotypes anytime they joke about a white stereotype. Then we begin to call ourselves the word, first while no blacks are around so we can get use to hearing and saying it without cringing. Finally, our senior year, one of us has to be brave enough to try it out on one of them. Someone in the middle, no one too popular or unpopular. Once that’s done, we can come together as a whole class and use the word as a term of endearment.”

            “Oh, so the kid at the table called me the word as a term of endearment?”

            “No, he was disrespecting you,” Lenny clarified. “Blacks use it both ways. We can only use it in its positive sense.”

            “Right, using it negatively like they do will only end in a fight,” added Ruff.

            “God, I thought remembering math equations would be hard.”

            “Well, it’s kinda like math,” Lenny said. “The things you learn one day will be implemented for the entirety of your stay here at St. James. “

            “Oh, that reminds me,” Ruff leaned in close and stared right into my eyes. “Don’t use big words around some of them. They’ll think you’re trying to embarrass them.”

           

            I sat down at the table and peered directly into the eyes of the kid who told me to leave the table prior. “What do you want now?”

            “I want to be accepted for who I am, not the color of my skin” I paused for dramatic effect, realizing how lame and cliché I must have sounded. Then I finished, “nigger.” They called me the word, so why couldn’t I call them the same?  However, it took every fiber in my body to keep me from running out of the cafeteria.

            I should have ran, because just as the word left my mouth, the two kids sitting next to me grabbed my arms as the other lunged across the table. I don’t think I had ever been beaten so badly in my life. It was two minutes before anyone tried to break it up. The black teacher supervising the lunch wanted me to learn my lesson. I thought about telling the principal about his lack of intervention, but I didn’t want to get in bad with the faculty too.

            Apparently, I had stopped listening to Ruff and Lenny just as they were explaining the difference between the –a and –er forms of the word. It made a world of a difference, I realized now. Damn my proper grammar. As I laid in the nurse’s room, waiting for my mother to come in, ice on my right eye, I doubted that even if I had used the –a version of the word I would have broke down the racial barrier in the school. I would have to approach the issue with more subtlety next time. Maybe I could joke how the black kids had made me black and blue, that I was one of them now. I think I’ll wait until this whole mess blows over though. Enough insult and injury had been exchanged to last the week.

Story Time: Barking

[This short story imitates the style of Justin Torres' We the Animals]

I watched them. I watched as they turned the corner holding hands, her hand resting safely inside his, a rough and burly five digit creature. I watched as he told a joke and made her laugh, hiding his on satisfaction of bringing her such joy. I watched as he pointed to the restaurant where I sat under a canopy as if to suggest it as a place to enjoy brunch, his bare arm slightly flexing. She didn’t seem impressed by the place’s name: Minnie’s Munchery. I watched as they passed me, panting as they walk away in what seemed slow motion as I yearned for what she had.

            It was at this moment that I felt my jeans get tighter – in the general region of my right thigh. As I attempted to readjust myself, the waiter was leading Derrick to our table. I scooted up closer to the table and folded my hands on the table as if I didn’t still have a hard on.

            “Yo,” Derrick said as he came in for a hug.

            “What up,” I answered without getting up. I dismissed his embrace by saying he was late. It was only by a minute or two.

            “Sorry, Mr. Punctual. I’m guessing you ordered then.”

            I shook my head and handed him a menu. I studied my own without hearing the fruit cart come around. “Can I offer you gentleman anything? Apples, grapes? Perhaps a banana for you, sir?” I stared venomously at the fruit lady and crossed my left leg over my right. For some reason, bananas always reminded me of a lesson in a Shakespeare literature class where my teacher revealed that some women cut off the penises of dead men and put them in their mouth. I can’t remember what play this was in reference to; it’s just one of those odd tidbits I never bothered to fact check out of pure astonishment.

             We received our meals shortly after we ordered. He got french toast, side of bacon. A plate of scrambled eggs, link sausage, hash browns, and two biscuits was placed before me – a relatively safe brunch. I didn’t want to chance looking beastly as I ate my meal. I glanced across the table at Derrick as he pushed half a slice of french toast into his mouth, maple syrup ornamenting his lips.

            “You eat like the mutt you are,” I said to the Irish-Polish-other ethnicity I had forgotten man sitting across from me.

            “Right, like that curly brown hair of yours came from your black momma.” 

            I chuckled and went to place my hand over his. He pulled his hand away before I could reach it and slapped mines away. “Stop confusing my touchiness and clever retorts for affection, man. I told you that that one drunken night.”

            “But…” I started but didn’t finish, going back to my sausage.

            Across the street I heard a stray dog barking. Its front legs were against a tree. I looked to the branches and saw nothing, not even a nest. Then I noticed a squirrel on the next tree over. It looked down on the hound with a blank stare I read as pity. I smiled. I wasn’t going to bark anymore.