Arrows Through Archer

by Nash Summers

“What do you do all day?” Leaning back in his massive chair, gaze nowhere near me, he said, “Go to work. Try to fight off the overwhelming loneliness. You?” “Hang out with your son. Pretend I’m not gay. Wallow in self-pity.”

That was the strange thing about misery: it loved company.

“We shared old war stories,” Mallory replied smoothly. “Funny. The two quietest, most private people in the world alone in a room together. Oh, the shenanigans!”

“I wish I hadn’t hurt him.” “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 young. And you’re interesting—which is saying enough since I don’t think most people develop a personality until their thirties.”

“What are we doing, Archer?” Mallory asked. Falling in love, I thought.

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.

“We can’t keep loving ghosts, Mallory.” And for the last time, his eyes met mine. “It’s not that easy, Archer.” “Well, I guess we’re both about to find out if it’s any easier loving one more.”