A Story About Us

I awoke to the sound of the wind whistling and realized it was just you, relentlessly blowing into my ear. I shook you away and sat up on the cool grass. The summer had not shifted since I closed my eyes and yet an eternity seemed to have passed. Something was different.
-Had a nice sleep? You asked.
-How long was I out for?
-Fifteen minutes.
-Whoa, it feels way longer than that.

You shrugged and took a sip of your blue Slurpee. I wondered if grownups ever had Slurpees anymore. And when did they stop? I guessed at some point someone realized that it was too hard to be taken seriously with blue teeth. I could only imagine that courtrooms would never be the same with Slurpee machines.

You poked the purplish bruise on your knee and then scratched it. It was definitely the same summer I fell asleep to.

-Okay, I got a question for you.
-Shoot.
-So, I’m making this box...
-That’s not a question.
-I’m getting to it. Just shut up and listen to me.
-You do this a lot. You ask me things that you don’t actually want me to answer. It’s like you want to reaffirm what you’ve already decided.
-Forget it. You know what, forget it.

I would’ve said I had already forgotten it, but you were looking away from me then as if some kind of monumental wall formed in the space between us. You looked up at the tree, through its branches, and off to a distant place, where surely my comments weren’t welcomed.

-No, no...
I decided to humour you a bit. Maybe the tension would ease and things between us would be simple again. Not so destructive.
-Tell me. What’s the question?
-No, it’s not important. I just wanted an opinion. It’s just a box after all.

Now picking at grass and tossing the bits in a pile to your right, you sighed. It felt heavy and tired. Your thoughts were elsewhere and surely, no box was in sight.

-Come on, think positive.
-It’s a question about a box! Are you for real?
-I don’t get many box questions and besides it could be pretty damn significant.
-I dunno, doesn’t matter. It was a stupid question, anyway.
-You’ve never asked a stupid question before. Now tell me what it is so I’m not thinking about it all night!
-All right, all right. It’s not going to be very interesting after all this talking about it.
-It was really about a box?
-Maybe if we never mention the box again...
-Just say it!
-But… okay, so this box I’m making…
You hesitated in that second but I didn’t realize it then.
-I’m not sure if it should have a flappy lid or –.
-Okay, I was wrong, you do ask stupid questions.

A strange silence passed between us, one I couldn’t recognize.

-Wha’d you think it was about?
-Honestly? Like seriously honestly? I assumed it would’ve been a helluva lot more profound than deciding box lids.

Then came another shrug, another slurp, and more scratching your knee.


The day ended with our thoughts drifting in opposite directions. Somewhere between bruised knees and 7-Eleven Slurpees, a gap stretched between us. With this growing gap, came the overwhelming desire to be closer. This led to an inescapable truth. Walt Whitman wrote it in the poem “Song of Myself,” “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” We are the same. Our summer was a story of separation and belonging, a need for each other that is both devastating and indifferent, and most importantly it’s a story of improbable change.