Yellow trees, plugged into natural cocaine, punctured the sky.
She was looking towards these lightning bolts as he ruminated about the mythical creature of “bros,” as though a monster in the trees.
My friends are bros, she said.
I’m not talking about all of them.
Her smile, he believed, was inspired by this ‘inclusionary statement.’
Glimpses of his true self shone through the cracks of his sentences, similar to his reactions when receiving compliments on interior design – face flushing blood.
I prefer to call it style management, thanks.
She laughed, here, followed up with a mirrored compliment on the colours of the ceiling, a mix which brought him to question if she was having fun with him, or being authentic.
The artist is a friend of mine, thanks.
This seemed to venerate authentic appreciation: eyebrows had been raised.
Without a shade to colour his interpretation of her, he felt lost, and was yearning to understand her italics.
It’s beautiful, really, it is.
He neglected to mention the artist had painted his kitchen on the pretense he pass out their business cards at a party. This appropriation of the art seemed a topic that did not make his list of what stories impress other people.
This is my friend, Brian, he said. He just got back from volunteering with black orphans.
No white orphans? she said.
Strictly black – they’re so inspirational, said Brian.
He was unsure if these words, which impacted her perception of him by association, would strike a tone with her, because she was a person of colour… although he had never been a person of colour, he felt these statements would make him feel good, to meet a white person who was nice enough to civilize people of colour, abroad – and children, at that – and how their savior status would instill admiration, appreciation.
That’s a very particular policy you have, she said.
Both men were stopped by the ambiguity of this statement – hard to categorize – the friend made an excuse to leave – Jack tried to veer the conversation into an arena of his expertise – of sex, and jokes involving animals.
So, the crocodile, says, buddy, those aren’t my coconuts, and-
She laughed – before the appearance of the hyena whatsoever – he did not like how she laughed at improper times.
She seemed like the protagonist of her own stories, a character important to her own story.
Where was space for him, if she considered herself a protagonist?
How could he lead her, if she lead herself?
What did all of this mean?
He needed to break ice that had started to form – he thought things had been going so well – he tried to find something that she would surely relate to.
read the next scene next wednesday
word by Liam Lachance
colour by Bau Bo