Arrows Through Archer

by Nash Summers

But miles and miles and miles away, before I’d known it, something was about to break my heart. It would crumple to the harmony of screeching rubber on gravel. It would be crushed beneath a ton and a half of metal and fiberglass. The air around it would fill with the smell of gasoline, fresh country grass, and copper. And when it broke, it would break completely. It would be crushed into grains so fine, they would become sand. Flames would lick at the broken pieces, turning what was left to glass.

“Ah, Archer. We always hurt the ones we love.” “Why’s that, do you think?” “So that we know they love us too.”

“You’re like a brother to me, Archer. You’re not perfect, but no one is. And if I met a billion people on this planet, I’d still choose you. You and your silent fucking depression—you and your quiet heart and your fear of living.

Maybe if this universe of ours was different. Maybe if everything was different and the sky was the ocean and the clouds were the soil. Maybe if life hadn’t engrained me with apprehension or uncertainty or a longing for some things I obviously could not have. Maybe then, we would’ve had words for each other.

People fall into each other in different ways. Some people fall together in laughter, surrounded by energy and joy. Some fall into each other in passion, unable to keep their skin from touching. But Mallory and I fell into each other slowly, gently, tentatively, like almost everything we did. We were quiet and fluid.

“You’ve got this old soul, and it’s serene and hushed and reminds me of the smell when it’s storming outside.”

Unfairly, he pulled me into his arms. And because Mallory was the shoreline and I was the waves in the sea, gravity took hold and I was dragged into his arms.