DDR
The puzzle had a musty cardboard smell about it, like the air in the box had gone bad. It was a picture of several jars of candy. I was trying to figure out whether the piece I was holding belonged to a jar of peppermint sticks or candy canes. The rest of the puzzle was scattered on the table like colorful vomit from a kid who had eaten too many fruit loops.
I was very bored.
I looked over to see what part he was working on. He was trying to put the border together, he always liked to start outside and work in. He noticed I was idling.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
I regarded him. The skin under his eyes was drooping and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in several days.
“I mean… yeah,” I said.
I watched as he connected a long ribbon of pieces together, the thin strip of a 45 year old photograph of peanut butter cups and licorice laid out on the table.
“Same thing as always?” he asked.
“And then some.”
I saw where the piece I was holding was supposed to go, confidently slid it into place, and realized it didn’t fit. I let out a burst of air in frustration. He reached over and rotated the piece ninety degrees clockwise, and it slid into place. I groaned.
“Can we do something else?”
He reached across the table and grabbed my hand, which lay limp in his. The puzzle started looking blurry. I blinked, and a tear fell from my eyes.
“Are we going to be okay?” I asked. He was holding me now. I hadn’t seen him walk around the table to my side. He was sitting on his heels, propped up by his knees and the balls of his feet. I gripped him tightly.
“Yes. Things always come together for us.”
I looked up at him. He had that look of determination on his face, but I’d known him long enough. His shoulders were tensed and I could see where his jaw was clenching.
“Do you actually believe that?” I asked. I looked up at him again, and this time all his tells were gone.
“Yes.”