IF OR IS | luberto

1 | Friday

Click click. Click click.

Weary, dreary, groggy. Ennui lives in train tracks; wheels chase them like fright down the spine. They cough, splutter autumn's humors onto its sides, sludge hitting the steel with the blunt force of a hound's bark in pursuit.

Click click. Click click.

Heavy rain coats the window in sloshes of syrupy resin, glass absorbing the nuances of autumn rehearsing its winter lines. Luca's warm cheek against it inspires, momentarily, fog. The moon summons the strength of a fingernail, casting his empty compartment in a silvery blue wash, like soapy water. Luca is linen in its peculiar authority.

Chuga chuga gurgle... Shhhhhchtzcthz... Chuga chuga gurgle. Washing machine bath. The suds amass in the corners of his eyes, easily mistaken for fatigue.

Click click. Click click.

But Luca is a boy! Whatever boy who couldn't fight sleep wasn't a boy at all. So what he aches with the telltale signs of midnight: eyes that sting if he blinks too slowly, the beginnings of a hot throbbing at the base of his skull; his tongue feels somehow solid and tacky, like drying glue. With nobody around, he has no urge to yawn.

With nobody around, he has No! Don't yawn.

Luca winces. Outside, the sky clamors as a toddler, dizzy on its feet. Rotund calves jiggle amidst its stomping, joyous, splashing in the puddles of its own crocodile tears.

Click click. Click click.

Click— "Oh, why hello there. Don't mind me, twirling about in circles," Luca addresses the astral child aloud. Rotary phone. Nobody answers. "What have you got to be upset about? It was a nice day."

It wasn't.

Wait a moment.
I spoke a lie.

Each day seems longer the more tired he gets. The sun is a pimple he craves to pinch, too bright on his dry eyes, dusted in orbit, swept not by the refreshing spill of stars. Night exists as blue velvet sprinkled with sugar. His porous under eyes inhale the tang of salt.

Sun, moon. Sun, moon. Sun sun sun sun sun. Moon? Hardly a cycle where he doesn't wish to sink into its craters. Hey, diddle, diddle. Moo.

My heart is open
For tonight.

Click click. Click Click. Luca can't think straight. Click click. Click click. The toddler wails.

"Did you stub your toe?" He asks, near tears with exhaustion. "I'm sorry. That's no fun."

He hadn't been sleeping well lately. He knows why. When his eyes try to close, they're entitled to no mercy. Sleep is a persuasive seductress he resists hourly, and she is back now.

"You're not due to arrive until two," she says. "You have time."

He groans aloud. But the consequences can't hold their own, he thinks. I'm left to shoulder their weight.

It wasn't viable with the current state of things. That was why he was here—or, well almost here. There?

Whatever. The peculiarities of linguistics didn't matter. He just had to make sure.

Weary, dreary, groggy. Ennui lives in train tracks; Luca lives in its wheels, where sparks scatter, singe split ends into his hair. Fright runs down his spine. He coughs, he splutters. Mucus drivels down his nose. His eyes drink his tears so they don't run down his face.

Luca imagines himself as a bird. He'd be able to dive from a cliff and change his mind—perhaps even the very cliff they were edging now—choke the angel just as the mist of the sea freckles his nose, pull back to the clouds, and hush the toddler. Remind himself that he's still got worldly work to do. Perhaps beady black eyes and a cloak stitched from feathers would deliver him from the weight of his heart.

Shhhhh... Tip tip tip tip tip... Shhhh! Click! Tip tip snap!

The rain patter reminds him of his heartbeat most nights. Shhhhhhhhzipt! And there the lightning goes, injecting its blue milk into the sky, shunting the stars out of the way. The train trembles with either the thunder or unkept tracks. Both are equally likely.

Click click. Click click.

The train drags its feet, and Luca sighs, feeling the rattle in his very bones. Every sensation he has the privilege of meeting receives a show of politeness: he smiles pleasantly, shakes hands or bows, depending on the occasion, and slices compliments from his tongue like deli meat. Luca is an expert contortionist, knows how to squeeze into molds and slip out of them without breaking, all smooth lines and perfect impressions, exhausting himself for strangers and things, things and strangers. But it's predictable. Safe. Crossing nobody means your eyes are free to look forward.

But.

Roar! Thunder.

Today. Yesterday. Weeks, months ago—he didn't know.

Oh, god.

How could he have ever foreseen that he would cross himself?

Luca liked structure; he liked to plan and coordinate and make lists and plot points and mark maps. Things always were as things should always be, and for that, Luca thought his mind only had so much flexibility.

Teary eyes,
Broken heart.

But apparently, even that was a lot. That had the power to wake him up sweating in the middle of the night. That had the power to urge him to the train station straight after class, having not packed a thing or eaten or changed, expend the entire contents of his wallet into two train tickets—one home and one back.

That had the power to inspire wakefulness in exhaustion, even when the conditions were ripe for sleep. The bench cushions are squashy, the subtle jerks of the compartment soothing like a creaky old rocking chair, the moonlight a perfect overlay to the speckling of the rain.

Red flashes in his forebrain, and his eyes, having snuck closed, jolt awake again.

Life has torn
You apart.

Better not, no, better not.

All things considered, though, the night is nice. The thought carries his conscience through the minutes, tick, tick, ticking. The moon chases him as if sensing he needs a friend. Luca regards it solemnly and hopes that the man who engineered it isn't putting himself through too much trouble to keep him company. He waves, just lifting his fingers, but he swears that the moon winks back.

Click click. Click click.

Perhaps he truly is losing his mind.