Ambidextrous

03 October 2009

Contemporary fantasy. Words: 1679.

He was driving, but only because I let him. I would rather he drove to keep him distracted than let him sit in the passenger seat and crack his knuckles. The sensation of him cracking his knuckles travels through my own fingers in a most peculiar way. I have no specific aversion to his knuckle cracking. It is merely a part of him, and I have always accepted him utterly as he is, though when he cracks his knuckles, I know that he is brooding. I need to keep his mind busy.

At this moment, he had his fingers wrapped around the wheel of the jeep, blonde hair in a ditsy mess around his shoulders and tangled up in his shirt. His gaze was relaxed on the road ahead. We were behind a truck travelling five under the limit, and it was no doubt annoying him. The air in the jeep was warm, the clouds low and dark, and we were both sleepy and calm. Wheels hissed over tarmac, trance on the radio.

There were horses to my right amongst the green and brown mottle of land, patchy alfalfa, sky reflecting the green in a bottled in fashion. I was thinking about my childhood. "I had a Shetland pony once," I murmured.

"Hmm?" his eyes remained on the road. I was searching for something to say that would make him look up and bring his attention back to me.

"A Shetland pony, a little grey one."

"I can imagine you sitting on it like a princess." The corner of his lip rose, brows smoothed, just for a second.

"It was funny," I said, glancing back at the two receding horses, one brown, and one tan.

Pause. "It told jokes?"

I knew that was coming. My automatic response: "Yeah we were a double act. I was the straight man."

He did glance at me then. "You know, that's sort of ironic."

"Yeah. Isn't it?" My voice was angled too low, the tone too flat.

"What?" he asked, sensing the nuance.

"Well, when I rode the pony I wanted to be it. To feel how it ran, the sensation of the hooves on the earth, the aspect of the body, the shoulders working and lungs pumping air."

Ahead the truck moved towards the inside lane and gave us a partial view of the road out in front: hills, trees, and a junction in a valley below. Gently, he began to move across to the other lane, push on the gas. I eased down in my seat, blissfully tired, spread out my long legs and rested a foot on the dashboard. His eyes flickered across in response to the movement and he shook half of his messy hair back from his face.

"My shoulders are broader," I said.

He afforded me another seemingly sly corner-eyed glance. "No shit."

"No, listen. They feel broader. I'm sitting here feeling them against the back of this seat, and there's more seat to feel, because my shoulders go on further. There's more skin. There's just more sensation because there's more nerve endings."

"I can understand that," he murmured. We were level with the truck, starting to speed in order to pull ahead. I stared, craning my neck, mind occupied by the dirty white and red hulk as it receded behind us.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Anyway," I said. "You have a skinny butt." No reaction, so I drew breath to speak again.

"Actually my hips kinda hurt,” he said.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Real low down around my pelvis."

"Time of month?"

He did that eyebrow-raising thing he does so well. "Maybe so."

Another silence while we pondered the mysteries of the asphalt. I began to fiddle with my hair. Auburn curls in my eyes. I twisted them round my fingers. We were in a space of trees now, hills rising up around us, few houses. "I walked through this country once."

"Oh yeah? I'd like to do that one day."

"Walk America?" I asked. He nodded. "Yeah. Take a few years though."

"I have plenty of spare time right now. In fact I don't have any plans beyond tonight."

I nodded, amused. "Okay, let's do that."

"When?"

"Soon?"

"Okay."

I tried to think of something to make him laugh, but I could not, really. I was too tired to concentrate. I tried to settle in my seat again and bashed my knee on the dashboard. "Dammit! You know when you're walking down a flight of stairs in the dark and you think there's one more step than there actually is and you try and step through the ground?

"Uh huh."

"I feel like that. My legs are too long. I'm so uncoordinated, I can't cope with it, I'm so graceful usually!"

He sniggered. "My legs are too short to push the gas pedal to the floor."

"Not that you'd want to do that."

"No. Not at all." We both sat there savoring our own irony.

A few spots of water broke up the surface of the windshield. I watched them accumulate, spread out in the push of the air. "The human brain," I began, "is supposed to adapt very quickly to changes in perception."

"Yeah," he knew this. "Like when you put coloured sunglasses on and everything's pink, and then after a while the world looks the right colour again, and when you take them off, everything's turquoise."

I thought about changed perceptions for a while and took a moment out to crack my knuckles.

"That is so annoying," he said.

I looked at him hard and did that eyebrow thing he does, and he burst out laughing. "Okay, I get it. Stop it, you're freaking me out, you're even sitting like me."

My foot was still on the dashboard. I grinned. "And you're not?"

He acknowledged this. "I must admit I have the unbearable urge to fold my legs underneath me and start biting the sides of my fingers."

"I don't do that!"

"You SO DO. You don't even realise you're doing it. You just sit there and bite your fingers. You nibble on them," he lifted a hand off the wheel to demonstrate.

"Well I get bits round the edges of them."

"Now you're being defensive."

"What about you? You sit there and tap. You crack your knuckles and you tap things and you jiggle your leg like you're really impatient. I think you were a drummer in a former life."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do. And you do that eyebrow thing."

"Oh man!" he exclaimed in mock horror. "I'm such an irritating person!"

"Too damn right you are."

"Why did you never tell me? I've been living like this for years and all that time… I've just been repulsing people with my bad habits!"

I chuckled a little more, and rummaged around in my coat pocket, opened the window a crack and lit a cigarette, instantly coughed. "Oh. I forgot about that."

"That would explain why I've been a little short tempered lately."

"Of course."

"Do you know I think I have all your mannerisms? You have mine. It's really interesting seeing them all in action. I might have to make a few body language revisions."

"Are you critiquing my body language?"

"No, it's mine. I'm talking about mine."

He did the eyebrow thing again. "Are you sure about that?"

I smirked. " You know how women move differently and place their legs differently when they sit according to whether they're wearing a skirt or trousers?"

"I think so."

"Like if they're wearing trousers they'll feel freer to spread their legs out or sit with their legs on tables, or crossed under them? But if they're wearing skirts, they'll be more inclined to keep their legs together, but they'll be able to fold themselves up more because they can move their waists more freely?"

"Yeah, I get what you're saying. Jeans or dresses. Yeah."

"That's you that is. You're wearing trousers, but you're sitting like a girl."

"I'm driving."

"No, in general, you've been sitting like a complete girl. You don't put your legs up on the dashboard anymore. You don't spread out as much. You cross them at the knee instead of the ankle."

He contemplated this. We passed a greyhound bus, and I read the destination: New York. I would have liked to go to New York. I wondered if we should take a diversion.

He flicked his hair out of his face. "You're probably right."

"Hmm? Oh! Ha. I knew I was."

"I like wearing your clothes though. It’s kinda sexy. And I can just go and stare at myself in a mirror when I want to–”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“ I think we should keep it this way."

"You won't last two weeks."

"Wanna bet?"

The random fall of water had become rain, and I reached over and snapped on the windshield wipers. "I dread to think what you'll do with my stuff."

"I'll look after it."

"He says innocently." I squirmed in my seat again and fought the safety belt for room. "Listen, you're left-handed, right?"

"Last time I checked." He peered at me owlishly. "You must be having some problems."

"It's making my life unbearable. I try to do things with my right hand, but it's so weak and clumsy I can't even write properly."

He rolled his eyes. "Try working with your left hand then. Your brain will catch up faster than your muscle."

I pulled a sulky face. "It's all right for you. You're more ambidextrous than I am."

He veritably sniggered.

I stared. "How in Christ do you get a dirty innuendo out of everything I say?"

"I dunno..." he shrugged and looked sincere. "Must be your dirty mind."

"Very funny." I shifted in my seat and adjusted my jeans, swapped the one raised leg for the other. "Which the hell way do you pack?"

"What?" he looked alarmed.

"I'm having real difficulty here. I can't get comfortable."

He passed back a very knowing expression. "Like you said. I'm ambidextrous."

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