the atlantic was born today + joshler

the atlantic was born today

Tyler swears he's new.

He's never seen those stark white knuckles, the ones dusted with freckles and gripping the dog's leash so hard the fabric might split. 

Tyler swears he's new. 

He's never seen the sweaty, curly mop of dark brown hair, the way it tucks itself behind pierced, gauged, slightly pointed at the top ears. 

Tyler swears he's new. 

He's never seen those muscular, freckled arms hiding under a tight t-shirt, black with a little hole threading at the bottom hem, barely noticeable but enough to catch Tyler's eyes for a moment. 

The dog is wagging its tail, it thumps against the floor, and its tongue is lolling out on the side of its mouth. It looks happy, content, like it just went for a run but isn't panting because it could still go for more. 

But Tyler thinks dogs may just always look like that. 

The guy holding onto the dog's leash, however, looks like he just ran twelve miles straight with no water. His face is flushed, his breathing seems a little more erratic than what one would normally breathe like, and he's sweaty. Not terribly, but Tyler can just barely make out little beads of sweat along the guy's temple. 

He's got a nose ring to complement a little hook in the bridge, Tyler likes it. 

The lights are fluorescent and buzzing, they illuminate the thin layer of grease over the guy with the dog's hair. 

...

The cookies on the plastic folding table are the same as ever, the ones bought at the cracker and cookie section at the store, probably on clearance because they're close to their due date. 

Refreshments usually teeter between lemonade and fruit punch, but there is always water.

Tyler always gets fruit punch and lemonade. If he's late and they've run out, then he'll settle for water.

Tyler tucks a napkin filled with cookies into his lap, hoping that they don't sink through his thigh gap, and rolls himself over to his usual spot, but not before pouring himself a drink. It's lemonade today. 

There is no chair in his spot, he's thankful.

They're mindful, they always make room for Tyler's own chair. He's always sitting, it's what allows him to move around so much. 

He is one of eight people. 

There used to be seven including him, but curly-haired dog man joined last week. Tyler hopes he joins again, maybe he'll talk this time. 

He couldn't even get his name out, he just sat there, sweaty and pale and surely about to tear his dog's leash to shreds. 

Working dog, the vest said. Do not touch. 

Tyler didn't touch the dog, he wanted to but he was respectful and only eyed the happy yellow ball of fur.

Tyler always thought working dogs would be serious, but this one didn't seem like it. He seemed hyper, happy to be around this many people. No one touched the dog, though. 

At one point, the dog started licking his owner's hand, probably as a source of comfort, and the owner closed his eyes and breathed shakily and that was that. He seemed slightly more calm afterwards, not as sweaty, but still incredibly anxious. 

Today, though, he shows up looking a lot calmer than last time, his eyes covered by sunglasses and his hair not as sweaty looking. He looks refreshed, almost, and Tyler wants to march himself right over there and talk to him.