River Teeth

Destroyer

River Teeth: "...these are hard, cross-grained whorls of human experience that remain inexplicably lodged in us, long after the straight-grained narrative material that housed them has washed away. Most of these whorls are not stories, exactly: more often they're self-contained images of shock or of in ordinate empathy; moments of violence, uncaught dishonesty, tomfoolery; of mystical terror; lust; joy. These are our "river teeth"- the knots of experience that once tapped into our heartwood, and now defy the passing of time." -David James Duncan

Sometime in late 2013

Kyle watched, mouth agape, as the thick, black marker dragged across the skin of his left hand, top left to bottom right, then top right to bottom left. The woman doing this seemed distant, perhaps numbed by the loud music that swelled against the dark walls and neon beer signs. She had a silver septum piercing that gave an edge to her already cute face. Kyle wanted one. The ink seeped and spread like tiny black veins across the tops of his knuckles. X marks the spot. X shows that you can't legally handle alcohol. X shows that you're 14 and have come out to your parents with your new(ish) boyfriend just a few hours before, then left to a concert with said new(ish) boyfriend because they didn't want to sit around and hear what their parents thought of them. It was all planned anyway. Dump the news on the families and split before they can protest.

A beer can flew past Kyle's face and landed by the bar.

Stan was next. He frowned, watching the marker drag over his skin to form a jagged, sober X. He looked up at Kyle and gave him a smile, a polite smile. The one that you copy and paste to yourself when there are strangers about.

"Enjoy the show."

"Thank you," Stan squeaked, then grimaced. Both of them still suffered from a voice crack now and then. With each other, it was okay to tease about it, but in public, it could be painful.

Kyle couldn't remember the band they were seeing; he glanced at his ticket- Strawberry Migraine. Stan was always hung up on indie or local bands- Local Natives, Speedy Ortiz, Butcher Babies, Sparklehorse, Phantogram- dear lord, he never shut up about Phantogram. He put the ticket in his back pocket.

"I didn't think there would be this many people," shouted Stan. R & B pushed itself out of the stage speakers. The bass throbbed and rattled in both of their chests. He grabbed onto Kyle's hand so they wouldn't lose each other in the seedy venue. People of all shapes and sizes dodged past the two boys as they made their way to the stage. Some of them stole a glance at their intertwined hands.

"It's Friday," Kyle shouted. Stan shook his head and shrugged his shoulder. He couldn't hear. Kyle leaned down slightly and repeated himself into Stan's ear: "It's Friday. People are off of work now."

"Oh," said Stan, "Yeah, true."

Really, Kyle? He thought, you just came out to your parents and ran off with your boyfriend and now you're giving the most mundane responses as if nothing happened today?

"I'm glad you're here," Stan said and squeezed Kyle's hand. Kyle blushed. Stan's gaze was serene but somehow steely; the way his eyes narrowed in on Kyle gave him chills. Stan never expressed one singular emotion at a time. It was always mixed. Kyle could never tell what he was thinking, and as a result, became accustomed to being terrified of what was going through his mind. Stan would always be Stan, but lately, he had started saying and doing some alarming things. One day Stan would say things like "I fucking suck," to radiating soaring confidence that same afternoon. One time he said "I can't picture my future, it's just black. Why can't I picture myself being older?" One time Kyle caught him digging his fingernails into his wrists in a frustrated yet absent-minded stupor.