LXIII. Fetch

“But we cannot sit and stare at our wounds forever “

A dog on the internet tells me .

An orange ball blazes vibrant!

Voracious and ready to run.

The soft blue of a sleeping teddy

Harkens gentle love.

The doggy in the middle sits,

Stick in hand.

No longer

fetching fucks .

.

"What the duck are you writing " The Little Martian eyes my Word doc with a contorted expression.

"arrey. I'm a little overwhelmed LM"

"what's this arrey arrey? get the duck out of this khet already, you're going to start quoting Talwinder next at this rate"

I snort, contemplate telling the Martian that things aren't as simple as they seem...that emotions demand to be felt! Closure seeks closing! And goodbyes are long and difficult and terrifying!

But the Martian has already packed his bags, donned his hunting hat, and got his earphones plugged in. I can hear strains of Def Leppard ripping through his knockoff air pods. He pops one screaming bud out of his little green ear and cocks a brow at me,

"Ready to blow this popsicle stand ?"

I hike my backpack up on my shoulders, pull the wedgie out of my ridiculously high-waisted jeans, and lock the door behind me.

"Ready."