Learning to Live

There's a part of Tyler that only comes out when he's with the cars. He seems broader; stronger. Tyler is admirable during every other time of day, but when it's sunny outside and he's leaned over the hood of a car, a sign of masculinity that can be put into no words, he's like a whole new person.

"Sorry about my dad," he apologized. I furrowed my brow.

"Why?" I asked. Tyler shrugged, his muscular back turned to me.

"He's a mess of a man, Lori," His voice shook, and I stiffened, not sure how to respond. "A mess of a man..."

"Can I ask-" I paused, reaching out to Tyler, "can I ask how he's a mess?"

Tyler turned to face me, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed tense, almost agitated.

"Well, my first memory of my dad was seeing him pulling my mom across a room, by her hair. He was probably drunk, or high." Tyler winced at the memory, but continued.

"He's been in and out of jail all my life. I don't remember him being with me for a longer amount of time than nine months," Tyler's body was rigid all over. He had muscles tightened in places I didn't know muscles could tighten; he was reliving memories.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, reaching out to him again. My fingers brushed against his forearm, and he shut his eyes. We sat in a silence filled with noise.

"It's okay," Tyler responded, his voice sounding as fragile as eggshells. He sighed, his breath rattling in his lungs. His lips shook, as if the words were fumbling around on his tongue. "In the past," his gentle breaths said, "all of it, in the past."

Those few moments in which Tyler seemed fragile and weak were some I would always cherish.

No one is always strong.

Hours of meaningless conversations stirred around the room, Tyler moving all around the car in the garage. I stayed put, sitting on a bar stool he pulled out for me after we were alone for about thirty minutes. We talked about things like tattoos and music, movies and animals.

"How have you never seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off?" Tyler asked, flabbergasted. I smiled to myself, and shook my head.

"I never really got into movies, honestly. I like television shows, though."

Tyler looked at me from over the hood of the car, "I can't watch television. I can't do commercials,"

"What about on Netflix, or something like that?" I inquired. Tyler shrugged.

"Never used it." He closed the hood of the car, and smiled. I narrowed my eyebrows, curious as to what he was thinking of.

"I like Italian food, too." Tyler said. He was walking over to what seemed to be a coatrack, but instead of coats it had t-shirts hanging on it.

"Too?" I asked.

"As in, I like Italian food, too, along with the Chinese food we had the other day." He swapped out his now sweaty shirt with a new, gray one. It was snug around his shoulders, but I think everything would be.

Maybe not everything. He was broad, but not the hulk.

"Well, honestly, I haven't had Italian food in..." my words drifted into thoughts; I couldn't remember the last time I had Italian food.

"Well then, let's go, Lori." He stuck his arm out towards me, and I wrapped mine around his. Mine was a lot thinner, weaker in comparison.

My hair was also a lot longer and my genitals were totally different from his, but that's beside the point.

"Have you eaten Italian food lately?" Tyler asked me. We were both sitting in his car, with a blissful silence between us.