3 for friday

I. your dog

Your dog throws up at midnight, and though you know it’s nothing serious it still makes you nervous. Over drinks, Josh says it’s clear you have a lot of love for him and you agree.

“Have you ever felt that before?” He asks and you weave an elaborate tale about the past dogs of your life: the one made of chocolate, melted too soon, the first dog in space, the garnish that made you jealous. You never thought about dogs as a metaphor for anything and now your brother makes giant illustrations of his sleeping dog and you wonder why you waited so long for this one.

Often, early in the morning, hours before breakfast time your dog curls up close to your back. He stretches out his paws, pressing them firmly against your back and the two of you lay still but awake, connected in silence.

II. Choked up, face down, burnt out

In therapy you talk about your first ex, how he left for Spain, told you he loved you, and never contacted you again. “I think…um, maybe what I’m feeling,” you start. “Is not that I was confused about what I wanted. I knew what I wanted but felt like I wasn’t given the chance to show it.”

Outside it’s overcast and slightly raining. Eyes closed on a gray sofa you listen to the sound of rain hitting the window and try to synchronize the buzzes alternating between plastic green paddles. You have been tracing the lineage of your love and your loneliness and how the two intertwine more than you originally noticed.

You’ve spent too long thinking about your robbed future and stifled past. “I think I could have been a good friend to him,” you say. “I think if I was given the chance, I could have felt those two things at once: love for the time we spent together, respect for the friendship we’d build together.”

III. Spectacular Views

Michael tells you about his plans to move out West, where the land and sky converge and the city sounds can’t reach. He tells you it’s about heartache or something more profound like longing, though for what he can’t explain.

He is going where they all go: the popup town in the west Texas national park where witchy women carve miracles from the stone. You have heard this tale before: how threads of miracles are worked from stone—thin slivers of salvation pulled from limestone stick with memory.

“Are you scared?””No,” He answers. “Giving up something is not so hard when you have something to gain. Mostly I am anxious, nervous about what could be.”

Nobody returns the same. Some don’t return at all. Those that do are marked by their miracles: sprouting wings or horns, heavenly marks etched on their skin, glowing eyes, or transformed muscle. They must make a pact to never speak their miracle out loud, keeping it for them alone.

“I’ll miss you,” you tell him.”I’ll be back,” He assures you, but you know it’s not the same.