Abbie Doll

I confess, you rarely speak with confidence. You reply, I know. I’m terrified of traffic jams, the resulting pileups. But we all know how eloquent you can be and often are. With great eloquence comes great responsibility, you tell me, not spoiling a single syllable, not spilling an ounce of the ruby hibiscus tea you hold in your grasp. You’re concerned with the letters getting jumbled, getting all rough and tumbled in that maze of a route from your brain to your mouth. Well, none of us know the way, I say. Speech is a sea of sounds, a sea of crashing, the ‘c’ of conflict. You respond with deliberate silence, a pained contemplative look on your face, frown lines cementing in place. I can tell you want to respond, but you’re waiting on that golden chariot of clarity to arrive. Waiting on absolute certainty, the safety of assured expression. You’re more cautious than most, we’re not all planners like you. Some of us drive blind and don’t give a damn. Seriously, just listen to the shit we emit. And yet, we floss the crap, brush away the plaque, as we refuse to sweat the nonsense we spew in our momentary lapses. I look over, beseeching you to contribute a morsel of chitchat, some tongue-dished donation, but your stare’s gone blank. Your right pupil’s a halting red light, and we’re stopped here in a nonnegotiable standstill waiting for that epiphanic flash of green. It feels like a purgatory eternity, but it’s really only been a hot traffic minute, whatever that may mean. When you open your mouth to speak—finally—I’m convinced the floodgates have opened. It's such a miraculous sight that I begin to thank the deities, showering them with newfound worship. Devotion, even. But wouldn’t you know it, in lieu of words, out comes a Hot Wheels replica of the 1969 Mystery Machine—unmanned, Scooby Doo and the gang nowhere in sight. Off unraveling some other monster-ridden mystery, I suspect. You hand the saliva-coated toy to me and blink twice, expectantly—as if I’m blinker fluid fluent. One of the wheels has popped off, kooky orange rims and all. Somehow, the suspension looks alright. Nice and tight. I tell you as much and watch you exhale a relief-ridden sigh. We both follow the horizon-full cloud of emotional exhaust escape the immaculate pipe of your parted lips. The cartoony, cumulus smoke is immediate, like when you smother a flame. While your scrappy jaw is agape, I leap from my seat at the irresistible opportunity to study your guardrail teeth, inspecting for signs of damage done. You mutter and sputter. Phew, that was a close one. But I’m no longer listening. I got dragged into the wreck of our bodies—your groovy tsunami tongue crashing up against my wrenchlike fingers. You think we got out unscathed, but sweetie, let’s face it: love’s an accident, too.

Abbie Doll is a writer residing in Columbus, OH, with an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a Fiction Editor at Identity Theory. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Door Is a Jar Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, and The Pinch, among others. Connect on socials @AbbieDollWrites.

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