She came at me strong. And unexpectedly.
Her notifications hit different on that 517 Saturday; I was already off the chain and running. Because it was another unsupervised night, bleeding inexcusably into another stupid Michigan Sunday. So I was surprised by a rare interference in the drunken tick-tock rhythm of my irresponsibility.
It seemed somehow significant. And influenced damaging intentions—I was alone at the bar. Again. Punishing myself for the inexcusable oversight of somehow being alive.
I saw the missed messages. The ones initially left unanswered, despite the fingered intimacy of a quick pull-down peek. Because I didn’t know how to respond.
I read a few of the words. An overdue tag-along link to a requested song provided a new sound. Reactionary emoticons decorated coloured boxes of conversation.
But then, our style of communication has always been rather unconventional. And a bit uncoordinated. Just like the initial connection that sparked those conversations in the first place.
Even after weeks of dormancy, we still knew the code. And we didn’t miss the beat.
But I was left wondering if we somehow still missed each other.
It was difficult to tell in that dump of a rust belt bar. The one contributing to making things irresponsibly messy. Because heavy hands poured the whiskey neat. And at a significant discount—it seemed a fair exchange for a typewriter I was never going to use, anyway.
So I guess I can add “drunken typewriter evangelist” to the resume. Just like a modern incarnation of Johnny Appleseed. Only with more heft. And a lot less charming innocence.
She wanted me to know I wasn’t forgotten; I wanted to hear more of her music. Because I learn best when events are cemented in soundtracks. And I had been left craving a new rhythm.
I was still caught kicking tin and dodging mittened sin; I imagine she was still swirling in the circular domestication of it all. A concept foreign to my vagabond, feral experience. And maybe that is why I am always curious for a peek behind suburban tapestries.
Because foxes often have a way of getting under soft skin. And inside heads. Accidentally invading personal thoughts in the quiet times. Occasionally sneaking themselves into more private moments. Helping to make things just a bit more wet, though only in secret.
So she was correct to question me; I did my stumbling best to explain.
She pointed out the absence of physical connections. What, with me seemingly condemned to forever wander the inhospitable land of Q.D. Donut Munchers, while she clings to her sanity out on the eastern edges of the Rockies.
And that’s admittedly a long way for delicate explanations to travel.
I risked being bruised; I didn’t want us to break.
So I knew I had to go gentle.
She also asked me about… him. A topic I had been trying my best to avoid. Not for fear of the conversation. But because I was trying to be patient. And respectful. Which is admittedly a far cry away from my usual “say the quiet parts out loud, just to watch it burn,” Literary Bad Boy way of behaving.
She deserves at least that much consideration.
My hesitation was designed to allow her the space necessary to set the pace of the topic—nobody likes a pushy asshole. And it gets complicated. Because ours is a connection born of loss.
The things we thought would always be there suddenly weren’t anymore. We were left abandoned without warning, leaving behind a gap that no song, word, or drink could ever fill. And it was important to me that she understood that in this wicked carnival of indifferent faces, there is at least a silly, wandering fox who appreciates the enormity of that loss.
And the significance of our bond based on survival.
Flatland foxes may not be meant for the mountain meadows. But from their unique vantage point, they often see patterns that others can’t. They understand the enormity of the wilderness. And how to find shelter from the unseen storm of furtive sadness constantly threatening.
But most of all, once genuine trust has been earned, they fucking care. And will often fight like hell for the sake of those in their skulk. Even at the expense of themselves; even when that fight stretches all the way over on the eastern edge of the Rockies.
Distance is just detail; no storm can last forever. There is always room for one more song.
I wonder which one she will send next…
