Gather
They set it up saying nothing. The table’s older than we are
combined, a dull pastel green. There are scratch marks & stains &
stories you’ll know by heart if they get you to play. It’s summer but it isn’t
hot enough. It should be killing off a relative son of a bitch or two. She’s
inside, bringing out drinks. There’s a computer trying to connect in my lap. I
want to say something about you out loud. I want to kick the shit out of our
quiet.
She comes out & in & in & out. The ice melts in
their glasses, they keep finishing. Their heads turn slowly. She comes out to
sun, after someone else offers to serve. The lab, Shadow, is beside her, by the
pool. I hit refresh, refresh, refresh—until I say it out loud: there’s still no
connection.
They play on, pouring stories. I picture the packing up,
daydream about how nothing else feels as good as saying goodbye. Shadow stays
beside her. They fall asleep, one looking up, one down. I come over & lean
her head onto my left shoulder. I place Shadow’s in my lap. The internet works,
someone notices, & burps. Six
months later we’re announced. Six months later it’s a Sunday. It’s another day
for the rest of us to gather.
CP
Parker Tettleton is an associate editor at Short, Fast, and
Deadly. His work has been published widely.
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