Fennel & Fescue, & Fennel

Odd brittles of black. Smeared on back of hand. A bug — gnat, mosquito, fly? – what shortly ago working a wonder to avoid capture. Now sat where. Fescue Rodham sat alone the first of a long morning in a longer window of time, when Fennel Shankley would’ve cleaned weekly. His share of the housewiferly duties, their life. Reached into the pancake batter: two large eggs white now yellow and viscous. Stirred the metal pot, its right handle against bare torso. Sunburnt from last trip to the Keys before the storm birds invaded. Licked the unstirred blueberry, cranberry, banana; watched salt and baking soda collide; his eyes rose with the dead process under way; oats and whole-wheat flouring counter; painting a clown’s mask to cool peeling flesh, calm fear of forget. “Are you coming to the service?” the text. Suga the choco Lab on the pink tile coolio, praying for detritus, his water bowl brimming unlike its companion. Fescue muddied its heirloom parchment, that of the advance-copy service bulletin Sarah had sent. A smushed blueberry rendered a second mustache on Fennel’s rugged four-color face on the thick cover. He fingered loose hairs in his own. Unshaven since the accident, and his in-laws wouldn’t let him see. The back-and-forth legalities, small politicians’ grander statements baseless, the brevity of most tenures. A low howl from Sug. Another ping, Sarah. What would Jesus do? “What would Fennel do?” He would have a hot breakfast as every morning. He would wash the dishes properly, he would – no consideration of his teeth or hair or pants unzipped, socks unmatched, shoes that one day: When they ran into one another, literally, all those years of living two blocks away and where did you come from I’ve lived here since That’s when I moved here. “Never seen you before, bro.” Tandem words joining tightly, hearts too-soon released. “It’s the shortest day of the year, ‘cue,” Sarah said. He answered her third. Softly, “I’m waiting downstairs.” “You’re two hours early, it’s below freezin’.” “I got my car heater fixed,” she said. “You want pancakes?” Ignored or didn’t hear the question. “What was that,” he said. “Wear that chamois shirt I like, that he lik–” “Which one?” “I don’t know, y’all have different words than the crayon colors I grew up with” “Brown one, the br—” “The brown one yeah, that’s a color we both use” “I’m wearing it now” “Well come on down” “I’m not otherwise dressed” “You’re eating pancakes? Did you burn yourself naked in the kitchen again?” Silence“I’m just concerned about you; if you bury your day under the blankets y’all shared…” she heard how heartless what approached as advice “…Fescue, you can’t stop, you don’t stop time that way.” How much passed before his response. Or his way down five flights of stairs, out the lobby, down the back path to the park. Endless word of what at play in the middle-age man’s head. But not why or this hour, when.