J. A. Tyler - Sometimes He Became a Coaster

J. A. Tyler

Sometimes He Became a Coaster

He still sweat. A bead that didn’t roll in arcs down his plunko forehead. A gown unwrinkled. Ties uncrossed. Eyes closed. She still by his side knitting a burgundy sweater clicking metal hooks one against another.

The first day was a Sunday late in November in an arid place where orange leaves spilled. He was hit crossing from side to side by a Peterbilt and though his bones healed gravely and strong his mind sat lethargic and plump previewing mime shows a dime a dozen in frozen window panes. Now it was July and his pores still sweat.

The contract was spongy white yellow and was held by a paper clip and smelled of musk and told her to unplug them no matter what. He had wanted it that way. She too. But now here she was three sweaters down and two pairs of striped socks snug and warm against a niece’s fourteen-year-old cream calves and her drink resting on his chest sweating itself to dilution.

The nightstand was pill-covered and always stacked with mealy trash. And the floor was stinking medicine clean and scuffed by bedside wheels. And there was no other place.

In November she’d suffered and swore and pushed everything at waning moons and wandered grocery stores at midnight feeling the last of the peaches breathing hard and wooly. But she would do it soon. And by December although her mind was calming her heart was not and it helped to look at him there helpless and endearing and silent. And then people wanted to say their goodbyes. And the doctor wanted to run some last tests. And the niece now wearing the striped socks wanted to finish reading him the last of the Harry Potters. So she couldn’t pull the beige socket from the white wall pig spouts just yet.

But now it was July. And the doctor stopped by infrequently anymore just for hellos while swirling black coffee in Styrofoam cups. And the nurses just changed things and washed things and made sure she wasn’t taking too many pills herself. No one else had been by in weeks. Friends all gone from goodbyes. Family resigned to the inevitable. Harry Potter over. But her drink needed a place to rest and she needed her husband and the contract never stipulated how quickly she had to sever the thing. So it could wait. Indefinitely if need be. Until the next sweater. Or the next. Or the next. He wasn’t going anywhere her little coaster of a man. Let him be. For now anyway he was still sweating sometimes.

Among fifty or so other publications, J. A. Tyler has work recently with or appearing soon in Thieves Jargon, The Feathertale Review, Underground Voices, & Word Riot. He is also founding editor of Mud Luscious. Check out more here.