Taking Strides in the Desert
Bro’s approach is not quick and silent like when it’s late at night and Dave is almost to the bathroom. He walks slowly in the desert sand, ironic if the definition had been brutally murdered in an alleyway. Dave pulls his sword out in a line of quicksilver.
Bro calls him “little man” under his breath, and the words get smothered by the smack of his lips. Bro’s not wearing his shades. Dave doesn’t look him in the eyes, refuses to cross that one last line. He looks instead to the line of Bro’s shoulders for signs of the attack.
Striders love with swords gripped from the blade: promises extracted with bloody fingers, promises made with last stands, but Bro chokes out his name like dying man, parched in the desert, and Dave doesn’t know what to make of it.
He rounds Bro in trepidation, keeping his distance like he has some infectious disease and Dave is the town doctor coming to save the day. The prescription for uneasiness is a return to routine, and Dave has 60 mg of hot steel ready for pick up.
Bro pulls out his sword, and Dave allows himself a glance at Bro’s face as he shuffles sideways. He can’t make out his expression because he never needed to before, but it’s important to look while he can even if it makes his skin itch. All good things come to an end. His brother will get new glasses.
Bro’s bicep twitches, and Dave flashsteps away. He appears unchallenged ten feet away. He stares as Bro drops his sword.
“Bro,” he asks.
“Dave,” Bro answers, running a hand through his hair. A hot gust of wind ripples the sky like a mirage, and Dave is suddenly very tired. He kneels gingerly on twinging haunches before tipping backwards onto his ass. Bro staggers-shuffles-stumbles over and settles down next to him.
Dave stares straight out into the distance even as Bro tries to make eye contact with him, especially as Bro tries to make eye contact with him. His gaze is fixated at some point beyond this emotional apocalypse. Bro presses close to him until Dave leans against him tiredly and
closes his eyes.
And the Striders, like an army of fools, fall asleep in the desert.
Bro calls him “little man” under his breath, and the words get smothered by the smack of his lips. Bro’s not wearing his shades. Dave doesn’t look him in the eyes, refuses to cross that one last line. He looks instead to the line of Bro’s shoulders for signs of the attack.
Striders love with swords gripped from the blade: promises extracted with bloody fingers, promises made with last stands, but Bro chokes out his name like dying man, parched in the desert, and Dave doesn’t know what to make of it.
He rounds Bro in trepidation, keeping his distance like he has some infectious disease and Dave is the town doctor coming to save the day. The prescription for uneasiness is a return to routine, and Dave has 60 mg of hot steel ready for pick up.
Bro pulls out his sword, and Dave allows himself a glance at Bro’s face as he shuffles sideways. He can’t make out his expression because he never needed to before, but it’s important to look while he can even if it makes his skin itch. All good things come to an end. His brother will get new glasses.
Bro’s bicep twitches, and Dave flashsteps away. He appears unchallenged ten feet away. He stares as Bro drops his sword.
“Bro,” he asks.
“Dave,” Bro answers, running a hand through his hair. A hot gust of wind ripples the sky like a mirage, and Dave is suddenly very tired. He kneels gingerly on twinging haunches before tipping backwards onto his ass. Bro staggers-shuffles-stumbles over and settles down next to him.
Dave stares straight out into the distance even as Bro tries to make eye contact with him, especially as Bro tries to make eye contact with him. His gaze is fixated at some point beyond this emotional apocalypse. Bro presses close to him until Dave leans against him tiredly and
closes his eyes.
And the Striders, like an army of fools, fall asleep in the desert.