Bananapants

by Penny Reid

“Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?”

“Keeping it real, I think I’m most upset about the lack of dragons.”

Please. God. I am not your strongest soldier.

stood next to me holding my hand while they spoke naturally and easily and then said something about us needing to get back—TO WHERE, DES? WHERE?!—and then led me out of the house to his car

I need to apologize. Nothing is happening between the two of you today, you’re acting all bananapants, you need to apologize to your old friend. That’s it.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” I confessed without thinking. “You are so fucking beautiful.”

My eyes rolled back, my fingers twisting in the blanket, and I think I said something—probably nonsense, maybe I was speaking in tongues, I have no idea.

On Saturday, I ended up watching the extended versions of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. This took over twelve hours and felt like a rebellious act since Des had suggested we do it together. Well, we wouldn’t be doing it together now, would we? He’d had his chance and he blew it. TOO LATE BUDDY!

Using my fingers and nails, I ripped open the packet. “Why not use the banana in your pants instead?” He laughed, a deep rumbly chuckle. “Are you saying I’m bananapants?” “Well, if the condom fits . . .”

“It’s all smoke and mirrors and pretending, honey,” she went on. “Everyone is in various stages of falling apart. All the time.” Stepping forward, she cupped my cheeks between her palms, like she used to do when I was little. “Some people are just better than others with their smoke and mirrors, and how often and how well they lie to others. And to themselves.”

“At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.” — Frida Kahlo,

That pulled a laugh from me and I felt myself relax into the hug, my arms finally coming up and around him. And I cried. And I think he did too. Because when my mom came in and stopped short at the entrance to the kitchen with a surprised, “Oh!” both my father and I pointed at the onion while we sniffed and wiped our eyes. “It’s the onion,” my dad said, recovering first. He glanced at me. I nodded, confirming the onion’s guilt. My mom gave us both a flat look but I could tell she was holding back her own tears. “And so, what?” came her wobbly question. “You’re consoling Desmond because the onion made him cry?” “That’s right. That’s what happened,” I said, settling a hand on my father’s shoulder. “Thanks, Dad.” “Anytime, son.” He patted my hand on his shoulder, his voice still roughened and his eyes still rimmed red due to the onion exposure. “Anytime.”

😭😭😭😭😭😭