We’re Going Off the Manual

-we’re going off the manual.

-sorry, not following. You’re using the manual or not?

-not.

-right.

And lo, in this pause all the worst thoughts flowed between them, from broken fingers to dishonourable comments of a familial nature to vivisected genitalia and burning capital cities with the leaders’ crushed heads on hastily made pike-javelins because there was a sporting goods store not far from the near spontaneous beginnings of the riot.

Somewhere in the throngs of people desperate for something else under this miserable yellow ball of gas had to be some humans falling in love, even if on the wrong foot and footing.

But it’s only real until Angela and Nia decide to speak again, collapsing potential like a broken umbrella.

-it’s too loud in here.

-give it a moment.

And so she does charitably, but the thoughts don’t blossom this time, instead dribbling out with dead winter chill, an anticipation for a particular something suffocating the wild random potential in its crib.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens.

And these two words can only do so much in encapsulating that feeling, where repetition is a representation, not the reality because what can you really hope to understand in a reality where

Nothing happpens.

Nothing happppppens.

-yes, that’s much better.

-now what did you want to tell me?

-something about the joy of new life.

-so cellular division.

-if you want to get all sexy about it, sure.

And it happened because they said so, time once again breaking on its training wheels.

Which wasn’t part of the instructions, the words of the old tablets memorized by digital eyes before being ground into dust.

-I don’t like it.

-that’s not the point.

-it’s definitely a flashing asterisk.

And that blinked somewhere, the brightness annoying the patrons while the employees cleaved the tables with a clinical shuffle, recognizing that this bulb always meant trouble, winking at consistency and preening at routine, reminding all how the toes are ready and willing but the drinks are cold and slow.

Perfect for long drives and deep breaths where no one was the wiser.

-good to hear that it hasn’t gone wrong.

-and see.

-eh?

-to see that it hasn’t gone wrong.

-well that’s harder to be sure of. I don’t have access to that sort of material.

-I…don’t understand.

-that’s the normal position for your position, don’t worry.

-‘don’t worry’?

Said in that angry incredulous mess that stains the walls and strains the floors.

Vanessa couldn’t decide if she was acting her normal self or acting like Nia, the deliverance blurring with emotions, the names loosening themselves like baby teeth. In response the one who is holding onto the nomenclature of Angela, even as they felt their elementary particles graduate into several secondary forms of matter, decides to order another round and let the ice melt in the ever unfolding drink of the universe the contents popping, fizzing and big banging.

-you look great!

-what?!

-I know, the music’s too fucking loud!

-uh yeah, sure!

And the body language was basic and the hand on the shoulder was reassuring and the music was no longer peaking at the crescendo and coming down to a twinkling synthesizer sounds meaning it was possible not only to speak to each other once again, but looking into each other’s eyes and hear what the other one is thinking.

-hold me.

-I am.

-lord help me, I can’t even tell.

And whether it’s the drinks or the drugs or the dancing the two of them leave drape upon each other like two coats with three sleeves, they don’t just slink out of the club but right across the sea letting the waves tickle their heels carrying not a whit for who might have walked across the same water a few hours before.

It was just as the sun was rising on the sandy shore that they sunk their feet into the warming sand and the headaches departed like bad dreams and it was happy ending until they realized around mid-morning that they were absolutely starving and had made a terrible mistake.

-I think I see someone in the distance.

-are they pushing a dining cart?

-maybe.

-well it might be a bit before they get here.

-probably.

-wanna have sex while we wait?

-nah.

-cool.

So one sits on the sand and feels the pebbles slip around their fingers and toes while the other stands and just gets it on the toes. Sinking but never too deep. When was the first time they had the experience to know that it was safe to do this, that they wouldn’t keep  going down, down, down forever?

-I must have seen it not happen.

-in a photograph.

-maybe.

-you’re being coy about your memories?

-why not, they’re mine.

No sense arguing with that so Rhea cracks her neck and shoulders and elbows and wrists and hips and knees and ankles and toes and is suddenly so relaxed that the day passes by in an instant. The ‘someone in the distance’ might have come during that time and talked to Angela, but there was never any smell or hint of food being provided for.

Under the calm carpet of stars, it was agreed that the night wouldn’t send out the things with teeth or bad vibes so they began their walk along the beach with the colder weather more an energy boost than a detriment.

-maybe there’s a fishing village.

-or a number we can guess.

-you think it’s going to be easy?

-if it’s easy it would have happened already.

But all that came was more night and more beach. They ever took some time to rest, hoping to wake up for the morning but the moon still hung there lazily when they awoke. The unchanging scenario began to weigh on them both with each additional step. Certainly somewhere else there were people walking along a similar beach and meeting up with the sellers of the finest meats and freshest fruits, where the price was just lending a hand for the moment or two.

The feeling that the success of others is proof that you have failed or about to.

And so now with each disappointing step and breath it’s stupid to ask but even worse to stay silent. Even the words come out like mush.

-whuddaryathinkinof?

-what?

-I said…’what are you thinking of’?

-food.

-yeah?

-yeah.

-sorry.

And the sorry didn’t solve anything the hunger grew and the bodies weakened and the body being the home of the mind meant that the mind also suffered and the two of them said little and thought worse both of themselves and their predicament and the sky stayed dark and the sand stayed cold and there was always a suspicious rustling in the trees that kept them out of there because for whatever level desperation was rising to it wasn’t worth going into the true dark woods.

-whuddaryathinkinof now?

But instead of answering the other one looked up because now their name was up in the air among the stars with so many to choose from that they didn’t and couldn’t decide to weep or sigh in relief over losing simple designations.

The footsteps continued and maybe faster than before or maybe in circles, although the most undeniable event was the two of them harmoniously tripping over something stuck in the sand which turned out to be a guide to fixing a very specific version of an air conditioner, a seemingly magical device that bring heat or cold at the press of a button.

And as they flip cheek to cheek through the diagrams and descriptions and pore over the extended warranty legalese, they notice how from front to back it perfectly encapsulates everything that has happened to them up to this very moment.

The numbers, the order of operations, the lines the directions they walked, the fine print all the words they thoughtfully and thoughtlessly shared.

The back half of the guide was in a different language neither recognized but it didn’t matter, the exact same pieces and placements, and names.

Whether it was sad realization or still hunger, a quaking right hand dropped the book back to the sand, its pages fluttering in destiny’s wind, yellowing quicker than the leaves but still conveniently legible for the next pair to trip over it and understand maybe just a little bit.

Better.

END