HOW THEY FIT

By

J. A. Tyler

This is how they fit:

He drinks a Red Bull slowly because he likes the surprise of a taste and wants it to linger in his mouth and think longly while holding the sharp cylinder against cold fingerprints. And this morning he had a latte with a triple shot and a gist of caramel and a rolling chocolate covered bean atop the lid as is the custom of that particular drive-thru caffeinery. And his car is small and rides low and sinks into divots and clinks over speed bumps and wears sun fade like the strapping glorious tan lines that crisscross the backs of distinct women.

She wanders from half-finished laundry to a gerbil cage pointing cedar chip fingers to the three fish of which only one is still alive and even at that just barely. She makes paper packet chai but dumps it in the drain when the first sip is grainy and spits aging milk. So instead she hits the same drive-thru but orders a single something fruity or orange flavored or full of vanilla or chocolate or waves of candy bar. And she tips a dollar because she wants to. And her car is tall and the hood is chipping paint flaking like pie crust twice baked or leftover brittle and she can’t find her own smoothly covered coffee bean when it rolls down the crack of a leftover fast food bag and random dirty tupperware and a million pens none of which work.

He thinks about death and taxes. Money and concern. Elevation and climate. Yawning and full.

She thinks about hugs and cinnamon. Politics and change. Tiny animals. Smiling and open.

And when he lingers on existence his heart giggles in deathly fits.

And when she sees a small boy with brown bowl cut hair and a back pack two sizes too large her eyes appear drunk and happy.

He says to her while in bed waiting for sleep that never comes easily about the disappointment he feels for the latest project and how they could have done better if they’d only given more. Next time he repeats and she nods and he does too and he’s still not asleep.

And she says through weary angelic breathing how she took the class to a dairy for a fieldtrip this morning. And she almost brought a kitten home because it cuddled in her arms like a baby. And that a cow kissed her arm. And that they had her favorite Jerseys. And she’s asleep when she finishes.

And he smiles at her.

And she snores.

And she smiles at a dream she’s already having.

And he’ll probably take a swig of orange juice sometime during the late night reruns and end up having a dream about a girl being eaten by a black bear.

But that is exactly how they fit.