And They Lived . . .

by Steven Salvatore

gesticulate

the flock of pigeons

I left a box of condoms under your pillow—I didn’t know your size, so I guessed a sensible average—and I also got you some lubricant because they told me at Planned Parenthood that for, you know, it’s not naturally …” She motions with her hands and finally says, “Wet.”

Within seconds, I am deceased—new record for Mom.

invigorate

encapsulated

“You ever hear a word, and then it lodges in your brain, so you’re mulling it over and over again until it either sounds like a completely made-up word or takes on a new meaning entirely? Majesty feels like one of those words,” he says.

“Presumptuous,” I repeat. “Another one of those words.”

And Huck Finn. I love Huck Finn,” Jack explains. “There is nothing more beautiful than words.”

clandestine

“You know what I love?” he asks, and I hum, intently waiting on his answer. “That no matter what is happening on this planet, rain, storms, whatever”—he points up—“that is always there on the other side of the clouds.”

If I wanted to, I could reach out and grab the Big Dipper and pull it close, hold it to my chest, carry it with me everywhere I go. Or climb inside its basin and peer out at the world below, at this, us, right now.

guess that’s the thing about stars: they might always be there, stuck in the same fabric that lines the sky, but they will always be out of reach.

Jack reminds me of a star—no, Apollo, Greek god of the sun. How the world seems brighter, lighter with him in it, the way his words flow like poetry.

“Actually,” Jack says. “Thunder and lightning happen at the same time. But light travels faster than sound. That’s why we see lightning before we hear thunder.” “The

monosyllabic,

tchotchkes.

succinct,

“Presumptuousness.”

His lips are the spark, my body the thunder that follows, shaking the earth.

maelstrom,

eviscerated

unencumbered,

modicum

Then he places his hand on the opposite side, and though I can’t feel his flesh, I feel him, his heartbeat, the skin of the leaf as it pulses between us. Hand to leaf to hand,

“Something about shedding the past and going through the harshness of winter appeals to me. It’s almost religious.”

reticent

nebulous,

Sometimes, there isn’t any way all of you can be wrapped up in one pretty package with a shiny bow. And that’s okay.” He lets me sit with that for a minute before continuing, “This is a process.

You cannot control how Jack acted or what your former friend believes about you. But you can control how you cope with the stressors associated with each of them that connect to your

negate

where you are enough for you.”

insidious

It’s funny how so many of us struggle with the same stuff: feeling like we’re not enough. Not good enough to be loved. Not beautiful enough to be worthy. Not talented enough to be accomplished. Not significant enough to feel important or seen. Without the proper words to tell another that we love them, that we hate them, that we something-in-between them, that they hurt us when they think they love us. Hearing Jack say that what we have can withstand all that bad stuff makes me realize I’ve had it wrong all along.