Tuesday, 15 March 2016

Hyperpathetically speaking.

That cold wet grass served as a good cushion when Loch and Caleb took each other to the ground last night in the dark, in their endless multi-decade struggle to be whatever it is they think is best/first/most important/right/just/perfect.

PJ stood, dry and warm, just inside the double patio doors with a beer and watched. I asked if he was going to go outside and break them up and he said Naw, Bridge. Let them go at it.

So I stood tucked just underneath his arm, my forehead pressed to the glass, watching them slug it out and fall only to use one another as a crutch to get back up only to hit the ground again. PJ will step in if it looks like someone's getting really hurt. It doesn't matter who.

Loch finally stands up and backs off, putting the back of his hand up to wipe the blood from his nose, tucking his shirt in. Caleb gets to his feet and stands with his hands on his knees, staring at Loch while the blood from a cut on his cheek and one on his lip mingle into a thin rivulet down into his collar. He says something I can't hear and Lochlan laughs, nodding at Caleb as he stretches and then turns to make his way back up the steps to the house. I watch Caleb leave via the side gate.

What did he say to you?

Lochlan laughs again. He said 'Same time tomorrow?' but the mirth never reaches his eyes.

This is how I know we're getting old, when they don't even finish a fight due to ridiculousness, disinterest or other plans and that even the act itself is a source of (heavily guarded) amusement for both of them. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow we'll get somewhere.

Or they'll ruin two more shirts (and another Adirondack chair).