Saturday. 4 p.m. Knock at the door. Must be Jim.
Even if Jim hadn’t said the day before, “Tomorrow I might stop by to borrow the pressure washer,” a knock on Steve’s door usually meant Jim. On any given day, Jim and Steve found each other somewhere—the job site. Steve’s house. Jim's apartment. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Gym. Hunting. Fishing. Movie. Football game. Even chores. Steve could count on Jim to help him repair a fence, change out a faucet, paint a room, dig a trench. And Jim could count on Steve the same way. They were friends. Always together. Their coworkers called them “The Twins.”
When real men are friends, they don’t need to say much. They just are there.
Steve opened the door. But it wasn’t just Jim.
Next to him stood a pretty, young blonde in a thin, gauzy sundress—the kind that could drive a man stupid. Casual, floral, modest in theory, but the kind of fabric that turned sheer under bright sun. It was too sunny of a day for Steve. The sun was too bright today.
Jim shifted uneasily, voice tight. “This is my... friend, Mary.” His eyes flicked between the woman and Steve like he was searching for a flicker of understanding—some wordless permission that wasn’t there.
Mary grinned, all teeth and charm. “Oh my God! Steve! So nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”
She stretched the “so” like she’d read Steve’s biography and memorized the chapter titles.
Steve had never heard of Mary. Not once. Not in all the burritos, the beers, the boat rides. What else had Jim left out? They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to. That was the point. That was the comfort. That was the code.
Any other day, Jim would have barely said “Hey,” walked in, grabbed a beer from the fridge, maybe a bag of chips, sat on the chair. Together they’d watch whatever was on ESPN—even soccer. Jim had been in this house a thousand times. Knew where everything was, from the paper towels to Steve’s mother’s ashes. Washed and dried his laundry in the garage. Ate leftovers without asking. He belonged here as much as Steve did.
But today, Jim cleared his throat and said, “Mind if I grab that pressure washer? I’m doing her driveway.”
So that was how it was going to be now.
It wasn’t the first time. Before Jim, there was Jacob. Always worked the same shift. Always together. Always helping each other out—until Rhonda showed up.
Before that, in high school, it was Liam. Teachers still talked about Steve and Liam like they were legends. Their antics. The crickets in the hallway. The food dye in the pool. The two-day school closure. Class clowns—the kind you couldn’t sit next to each other.
Then Sara came along junior year. By senior year, Liam didn’t look at Steve. By graduation, Sara was pregnant. Steve was discarded.
It always started in the voice. The quiet satisfaction of men who didn’t need to speak became awkward. Sentences stuttered. Words got replaced by throat-clearing, filler noises—erhms and uhhs and ohs. A man who once moved with confidence now shifted like a little boy caught in his dad’s garage, holding something he wasn’t supposed to touch.
Steve stepped back. “Come in.”
But Jim and Mary stood in the living room. Jim looked like a stranger in the room he helped renovate. His eyes slid over the couch, the rug, the buck on the wall. He stared like it was all new. Like Steve was, too.
Steve said, “Garage. Pressure washer’s in the garage.”
“Yeah. I’ll go get it.”
Mary stayed. Alone with Steve. He hated her.
She filled the air immediately. “This is such a nice house. Jim told me all about how your mom died and left it to you, and how y’all replaced the fence and dug the trenches. I love the wall color. Is this the room you and Jim painted? He said he helped pick it out. So, you two work together, right? Construction? Have you done that long? Do you like it? Seems to suit Jim.”
Her voice kept going, bright and syrupy, sweet and suffocating. Steve’s eyes drifted past her to the mounted 12-point buck on the wall. Jim had shot it. Steve remembered the day—how proud Jim was, how humbled Steve felt when Jim offered it for the living room.
He’d wanted that day on his wall forever.
Men were like deer. Proud. Quiet. Strong. Fast. Free. Leaping through green fields together. Happy.
Women were like barbed wire—appearing overnight. Pretty at first. Delicate, thin, shiny metal. You saw the meadow just on the other side—the wildflowers swaying, the sun falling soft on the grass. But the wire was waiting. It tore the flesh. Blood and fur left behind.
Once barbed wire showed up, the run was done. The fun was over. It was never the same again.
Jim returned gripping the pressure washer. “Well, uh... we gotta get going,” he mumbled.
Steve locked eyes with him, searching for a glimpse of yesterday’s friend. “Game’s tomorrow. Sunday football.”
Jim looked at Mary. But she answered for him. “Oh, we can’t! He’s meeting my parents for Sunday dinner. But I’m sure he’ll see you around sometime.”
See you around sometime.
As if Monday they wouldn’t be eating gas station breakfast burritos on the tailgate before work. As if they wouldn’t be ripping shingles off a roof side-by-side. Drinking after work. Hunting. Fishing. Laughing. Living life. Together.
As if Steve wouldn’t keep the fridge stocked for both of them.
As if they hadn't made plans. Yes, they didn't talk a lot. But they did talk sometimes. Jim and Steve just didn’t talk feelings. They talked doing. Doing things. Making plans. Their future. One Mary was ripping up by the roots. What about the above-ground garden they were going to build next year? The trip to Alaska? Saving up to attend the Super Bowl? Fixing up his dad's '59 Chevy?
Jim cleared his throat. “Hey, man. Good to see ya. I’ll... see you around.”
Before Steve even realized it, his arms wrapped around Jim. The words slipped out, raw and unfamiliar: “I love you, man.”
I love you,
man.
It was the first and only time he ever said it—Jim just shrugged, “Bye, bro.”
Mary reached for Jim’s hand—the one not holding the pressure washer—and led him, and Steve's future, and the washer, to the door.
Her tits and ass were visible through the dress as the sunlight lit her up. She was glowing as Jim loaded the washer into the bed of his truck.
Steve stood at the threshold, watching. He already knew: he wouldn’t see the pressure washer again. Or Jim. Not like that. Not anymore.
By Monday, Jim would be just a coworker.
Barbed wire. Fucking bitches. All of them.
A tightness pulled in Steve’s chest. Heat behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw.
Don’t cry over bitches.
He slammed his fist into the TV. The screen splintered like ice under a boot.
He didn’t care.
What was the point anymore?
He looked up at the buck. The head on the wall stared back, hollow and proud. Black glass eye staring down at him.
That dream was dead too.
She used to sleep soundly through the night. That changed when she hit forty. Not on her 40th birthday exactly, but close enough that it felt significant.
Now, she’s awake—her usual 2 a.m. stirring. It’s always at this hour that fear of the future creeps in.
It’s funny. As a young woman, she never worried about the future. Back then, she paid rent four days late, held her breath as her debit card swiped, heart pounding. She lived moment to moment. Or, at most, paycheck to paycheck. Back then, the future could only be better, because the present was so harsh.
Now, she lies in the dark with her eyes shut, slowing her breath, holding possible futures in her mind like items in a store. She examines them, imagines them, as if trying to choose which one to buy. But every scenario feels like that bottle of ketchup she picked up last month.
The last one on the shelf. The label was slightly crinkled in the center. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal—imperfect but usable. But over the next few days, the label bent more, thinned, peeled at the edges, exposing sticky glue. Every time she picked it up, thick residue clung to her fingers and wouldn’t wash off. It had to be worn away—slowly, with time, like worry that lingers until the mind sheds it.
Thinking about the future felt like that. A small flaw she could overlook—until it grew. Until it clung to everything. So she slowed her breathing. Reached out to pet the cat curled beside her.
Maybe she’d do better as a cat. A pet. Just food and water, and the hardest choice is where to nap. She imagined her favorite spot would be the chair by the door, the one that soaked in sunlight most of the day. Then again, maybe she’d bat angrily at toys, pace in circles, stare out the windows at the world beyond the walls.
The cat purred.
Once, the cat lived outside, surviving on bugs. It had seemed happy then. Now it lived indoors and seemed happy enough. The cat probably didn’t worry about the future—at most, about tomorrow. Like the cat, she didn't worry about tomorrow or even the day after tomorrow.
It was the formless, shapeless blobs of time she feared. The amoeba-time: one month, two months, six months, a year, a decade—blending together into some uncertain something. So many variables. The husband snoring beside her—he could die soon or live for years. The job she might land—or not. The new town she might like—or hate. The people she hasn’t met—the people she has. Her heartbeat—racing now—might carry her to ninety, or stop at fifty-seven, like her mama’s. Anything could happen between now and then.
The cat put a paw to her face.
She hadn’t feared the future back when she feared the present. When life came in two-week increments. When uncertainty was survival, not philosophy. Maybe the ability to worry about the future was the luxury of a stable present.
She thought: If I were a cat, I’d probably nap next to whoever gave me food.
And that was enough—for now. Enough to put the future on pause. Enough to put the ketchup away, to let go of the day, to focus only on the night and the sleep she still might find.
What was she worried about? All the bills were paid. To her left, her husband snored. To her right, the cat snored. This was the music that lulled her back to sleep.
although almost alight, ain't
blight blinks blind bounding brindles
couldn't come careless, caught up cautious
don't dare demonize, dastardly deep.
even eagles eagerly ear early eats...
finna finsta fight
gosh girl, get gonged. get gooped, get groped
heavy headlight hopes home
ice-like ick idealizes indented imagines
jacketless, jammed jails jerk jesters
kayaking kegs keeping kennels khaki
laceleaf lacerated landlocked limbs
magpie mails measles medley
naked, naive native noob notes
only oafs obduce oddities open
pressed pizza palm
quarantine quakes quality
remote revises reality
sachet sad selfies saved sallow so-and-so's
tactic tracks tactile tags tan taps
unless ultra umbilical umps unconcerned
vacant vagabond visions vague vogue
waddling, waffling, wavering, waking,
xxx
yellowbelly yelps "yikes!"
zinna zings zinc.
