With Them
By Bradley Sutherland
A kiss with them takes place on the darker side of early morning, between the trunk and hood of two parked cars, under a streetlight that only flickers through watering eyes. Clicking jaws signify a shared condition of perpetual angst or bad orthodontics or the result of chomping on bottomless and overly salted popcorn while bellied up at the bar they just stumbled out of. Their lips unlock at burning rubber screaming for them to get a room. They grin and cock their heads in suggestive manner as their fingers slip away, stepping back to roughly the same distance as when they first met.
A day with them takes place alongside cold coffee and rushed breakfast. They crack wise about how it’s been gray outside ever since they moved up here and argue over who will drop off whom at work, both insisting they are better drivers in a downpour. Along the way, they call out names of random billboards and local shop signs like reciting flash cards in desperate preparation for an exam—the repetition of such surely making it one day feel like home. They stop at a school zone diligently patrolled by a bubbly crossing guard, and their shared gaze follows a small cluster of kids scampering across the street and toward a parking lot crammed with a steady line of suburban SUVs waiting to unload and contribute to an even larger cluster of kids gathering outside the cafeteria doors. They wave thanks to the crossing guard and glance at each other as they pull away, letting a collective sigh paint lukewarm smiles over their anxious faces.
A night with them takes place in separate rooms. It’s raining again because it always is, but neither feel the need to convince the other of one’s superior downpour driving abilities. In between the pounding patters on their respective windows is the remanence of a recent conversation that leaves them both feeling more comfortable and less satisfied than ever—aging is just other people perceiving you differently. Still feeling like the same persons they’ve always been. Except for the soreness. When the doorbell rings, they both listen for the other to answer. Neither can remember ordering food.
A life with them leaves place as they wander after Time, in hopes of catching it in a casual stroll. Of poking it on the shoulder and having it turn around to whisper, I know why you’re chasing me. Of standing before it once more, under a flickering light, at roughly the same distance as when they first met.
THE END
Author Bio: Bradley Sutherland is a writer living in Tempe, Arizona. His previous work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, Bulb Culture Collective, Short Fiction Break, and others.