Of Rice And Men

“I can still tend the rabbits, George? I didn't mean no harm, George.” ― Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

We stood under streetlights, cones of smoke and dew spreading wide from the bulbs. It was as if every unlucky sidewalk crack I had avoided, every piece of wood I had knocked on, and every heads-up penny I had stumbled upon led me to you. With my voicemail box full and wallet empty, I dissolved into you like sugar in water.

Your hand cupped the nape of my neck and I pooled into your palm. Behind my eyelids was a shack in Tijuana—you and me, livin’ off “the fatta the lan.” Stuffing our gullets with corn and rice. My love for you somewhere between the hush of the desert and the soft patter of mice.

Your hand found my hip and traced the bone, a butte on the map of my waist. Then, with a sudden rush of something dry and desperate, your fingers curled hard around my flesh.

I laughed into your ear, but my eyelashes were wet. Pulling back in horror, you lifted my shirt to check for marks. Apologies dripped off your tongue like drool. It never happened again.

Fingering my bruise, I wonder if the rabbit made a sound when two rough hands pet it to death. When they deflated its airways in one fell swoop of adoration.

A month later you broke the news that you wouldn’t be loving me anymore, and our shack in Tijuana collapsed. Just as dust settled on your decision and I saw myself out, I realized that every other rabbit had suffocated—except for me. I heard the cold, damp air of the wreckage whistling through my airways and beamed, ducking into the night.