Blue
By Kyle Weik
My new roommate is a miniature donkey and he’s moving in today. He’s not from Sicily or Sardinia, as Google would have you believe, but two miles north where the grass grows sideways and the farms go under. My sister told me to take my time. Better yet, find a therapist. She doesn’t understand silence like I do, how it must be filled when it’s fresh, like a taxidermied rabbit.
My new roommate is quiet the whole ride home. I dodge his nuzzle as I unload him from my beat-up Chevy, Lola. I like naming inanimate objects, animals not so much. But his previous owner, with her feather earrings and homegrown weed, insisted it would help us bond. She wouldn’t let us leave until I picked out a name and bought an ounce of Blue Dream. Which is how I decided on the name, Blue.
Blue has had a rough year—his partner drowned in a river four months ago. Since then, he’s been skipping meals and staring at walls. She also told me donkeys are emotionally intuitive and can die from grief. I squat and gaze into Blue’s eyes like a crystal ball, but he just blinks. Maybe she was high.
Blue squish-clops through my backyard of rotten persimmons. It’s not exactly move-in ready. Too many empty beer cans, not enough grass. He might fit in the raised garden bed, but that’s for the potatoes, which I’ll plant one day. I look at a pile of wood by the shed and imagine building him a pen, but I wouldn’t know where to start, so I lead him into the living room.
Inside is warmer, that’s about it. Parts of the ceiling are swollen from the rain and the floorboard gaps are now chasms, where crumbs and ants coexist. I’ve been playing a lot of games recently, mostly Tetris. My spatial perception has improved and I easily find a space for Blue, right next to the trash can.
While he ignores his plateful of hay, I finish the last of my neighbor’s tuna casserole. They’re an elderly couple who check in on me, invite me over, smile when I say no thanks. I don’t think they like me, but they loved my husband.
I throw on his oversized hoodie, cinching it tight so the smell can’t escape, and let the TV blare. Blue licks my Shake Weight. Infomercials always work on me, I think it’s the part of my brain that believes there’s a solution for everything, and I can have it delivered within five to seven business days.
I set down my bowl of ice cream soup for Blue. He tries to nuzzle my hand, I jerk it away, and he makes a horrible noise. They call it braying, I think it sounds more like crying. His body begins shaking. I want to press a button, shout for a doctor, and hope that this time it works. Instead I cover him with my blanket and rub him down—you’re okay, you’re okay—until his breathing stabilizes and my arms go numb.
After showering, I climb onto the roof and light a joint. I’ve been working on my smoke rings, but tonight I blow clouds and watch moonlight color them in. This strain is strong because the stars begin moving. I rearrange them in a way that makes sense, creating a constellation I can recognize without any help. I wonder how much a ticket to space costs, and if you have to pay extra to bring a travel-sized donkey.
A loud wailing wakes me up in the middle of the night and I go cold. Something clatters in the next room. I grab my husband’s baseball bat and flashlight, bathroom first, office second, before inching into the living room, only to find Blue staring at me with a cookies n’ cream mustache. There’s no laugh, no sigh of relief, just a thud as my knees hit the hay-covered floor. I let him nuzzle my face and the wailing starts again. But it’s not coming from Blue.
THE END
Author Bio: Kyle Weik (he/him/his) is a queer Japanese-American writer based in Los Angeles. His work appears or is forthcoming in Vestal Review, Emerge Literary Journal, Maudlin House, Bending Genres and elsewhere. You can find him on social media at @kyleisamu.