Reptile
We both looked at it flipped over on its stomach, belly yellow and textured, tail separated maybe an inch behind it. The rocks create mountains beneath its tiny body, its head hanging back over the edge, its eyes closed tightly shut as if it was in denial of our spoken diagnosis.
“I think he’s dead.” You say it softly, as if you could be speaking right to it, but I remembered that lizards don’t talk and I don’t have the capacity to think otherwise.
“no, I don’t think so.” I don’t move my head to glance at you, just fixing my eyes on the little reptile feet that don’t move, the dramatic splay of fake death. I didn’t believe it.
I kept swearing I saw its eyes twitch or its mouth move but it was then I realized we often look for things that reaffirm what it is we say.
The black separated tail was unmoving until it thrashed, as if stung by a jellyfish or a bee or something electrified, the circuit in its little skeleton humming with the jolts. It seemed to dance around the sterile body, as if a last attempt to feel the orange clay rocks beneath it or maybe to send a defensive signal. I feel you jump the minute it almost touches your dirt stained sketchers as if somehow it could grow teeth and sink right into you. I don’t really move only because it was reaffirming what I said, even if I were wrong about his actual heart stopping, some part of him wasn’t gone and that was confirmation enough for me.
“See?” I point my small stub for a pointer finger directly at the tail. I felt drawn to it, like I could wrap it up and take it home, place it on my bookshelf next to all of the river rocks I collected from rainy days on the rio grande. I imagined the fictitious habitat of rocks to maybe be comforting for him, enacting the pillow his head lays on now, bumps of familiarity, of mortality. He would be surrounded by my books written by adults but simplified for kids, teachings of hard lessons but with barely any words. The little dark manuals dressed as cartoon pigs and talking crayons that don’t describe what a dismembered tail does after it separates from the carcass. I don’t end up taking the tail, I didn’t want him to miss it.
The minute I lean away, your hand grasps the back of my head, forcefully pushing my face closer to the ground. I remember your palm landing on my head and instantly knowing to push back, my eyes inches from the squirming body part. I squeal as you laugh, your little hands strong and trying.
“Eat it!!” My breath caught in my throat but I also could’ve also been inhaling dirt, the little particles dancing on the back of my tongue, your fingers wrapped so intentionally around my head as a forceful hat. I wiggle underneath your claw for my free hand, finally sweeping my fist in between your legs and hitting your balls. Your whole body caves into itself like cotton candy disintegrating in water, less and less movement, your brows collecting into a ball on your forehead. I laugh, and you barely do.
“FUCK” you say, in an innocent childish way, out of place and trying too hard.
You wanted to show me what a kiss looked like. You had seen on the hidden CD, the lady with a white bust and cinched waist, leaning in with lips the size of sausages, dainty sausages. You watched her press her face against a man, slicked black hair, Sicilian features. They lay on each other for moments and seconds and hours but it could’ve also been because the DVD player skips often and with that, time extends. So we watched it, over and over and over and over, observing their pixelated bodies jolt every time they are just about to shed their clothes. I felt my mouth water at the image of them, I imagined more spit. I imagined more spit running down their chins and down their necks, something like wolves. Her eyes take up a lot of her face and I remember thinking why the angle was so far above her like she could be wide-eyed praying for rain. The way he grabs her head is forceful. It reminded me what the rocks looked like up close.
I take a glance at you, it’s the part when you get nervous and pick out your eyelashes. I would’ve found it weirder if I didn’t have the habit of scraping at my cuticles until they bled. I drip small smears of blood on my shirt, you would leave small lash hairs splayed on your cheeks like dog hair on a sweater. It was comforting we both had something to turn to.
