Bugbears & Boas
A story of unbalance
Bernard slowly and carefully angles his paintbrush towards an earth-toned plastic figure as if approaching a deadly thing. Prepared to retreat swiftly at any second, he defines the shading of the beast’s hair then uses the same technique on its sinewy face caught mid roar. Defining the details and outlining lighter brown with dark espresso. Tusks protrude upward from the creature’s lower mandibles. “That’s what I’ll focus on next”, Bernard thinks to himself. He starts in but before he could touch paint to primer coated plastic, an urgent voice echoed.
“ard! Hellooo! Hey, Bernard!”
The loudness blared as if it was a train speeding through a silent tunnel. Suddenly reaching the end colliding with all the sounds of the outside world.
Thick with annoyance, “Yes, Clara.”
Clara huffed audibly at the lack of sweetness in his tone. She knew that to Bernard, at the moment, nothing else was more important than painting an enraged miniature bugbear. She also knew that Bernard always found it adorable when she huffed the way she did. She had to be way more direct to be taken seriously.
In the most caring tone, Clara could muster “What would you like to eat? ”
his right hand rose to his chin and he let out an audible, “Humm.”
“Umm, I don’t know. I haven’t put much thought into it.” Bernard stated plainly while leaning back on his padded computer chair, his hands on the base of his hill like belly.
After a long pause, she continued, “I need your help, I just don’t have the mental capacity to decide right now, ya know.”
Bernard shrugged as if shrugging off all responsibility on the matter.
“I guess I have to come up with something.” Clara thought to herself as she rolled her eyes.
Her mother’s voice chimed in as if right next to her, “You’ve been together for what? Three years now? You decided to live with him. You already know how he is and nothing has changed. And, sweetie, I doubt it ever will.”
Instead of letting her annoyance turn to the anger, she decided to let it go. Repeating to herself. “Patience is a virtue. Remember, patience is in fact a virtue.” Her mantra of the day.
Coming back into the conversation she gave him a look that conveyed understanding and carefully phrased her response, “It doesn’t have to be a big deal Ber, it’s just dinner.”
“You’re not wrong.”, He said thoughtfully while rubbing his chin with his thumb and index finger.
“Okay so, what do you want right now? Like, what are you craving?”
“The thing is I’m not craving anything… What do you want?”
Clara stopping herself from flipping an invisible table. Giving him a smile held up by thinning virtue she said, “I asked you first, hon.”
Bernard leans further back into his computer chair and thinks for a minute. His mind goes blank. He doesn’t know what he wants. “I can eat anything.”, he concludes.
“Alright, how about tacos?”, Clara opens the mini-fridge, “We have some ground beef for you, and I have some soy left.”
“Nah, I had tacos for lunch, but I wouldn’t mind some quesadillas. Just don’t put spinach in them like last time.”
“It’s really good with spinach. I remember you eating them last time.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t like it. If you’re going to add spinach just put it on the side.”
“It’s all going to the same place but okay.”
“Thanks, baby!”
Clara looks over at Bernard who’s already back to painting the miniature figure. “No problem.”, she says almost under her breath.
Clara collects the proper pots and pans to prepare quesadillas, veggies, and soy-based tacos. Once she has everything together, she begins to dance. Small gestures turn into acts of full-bodied motion. Cooking as she dances; the kitchen becomes a stage. She includes her pots, dishes, and cups into the performance exhibiting them proudly. Sautéing fragrant garlic salt into spinach and soy. Marring cheese and corn tortillas to softness. These are her things in her kitchen. As the oldest daughter of a family of six Clara didn’t grow up with things she owned. Rooms, food, and cups were all shared. She’s dancing in her kitchen with no need to justify it to anyone.
The air escapes boiling water following a rhythmic pattern. Broccoli rises and falls to buoyant beat. Flames join her as backup dancers in a rendition of a pilot light ballet. A kitchen is a joyous place. Her favorite memories take place in kitchens. On her twelfth birthday, she cooked a hearty lentil soup with her mother. In the process, she learned how to cut potatoes and carrots so perfectly. So precisely even.
“It’s all in the motion. Swift and with confidence.”
The soup is still her favorite dish to this day. Her mother’s words not only translate to Clara’s cutting skills but, in her dancing, as well.
Now she shares a room with Bernard, but she hardly ever sleeps there anymore. Bernard notices this. When someone works two jobs while studying to be an educator they are bound to sleep in their office from time to time. Everything is fine.
After dinner, they lay down on a hand-me-down mattress not so much close to the floor as it is on the floor and pretend that their minds aren’t rattling like defensive snakes.
“Clara, Tiffany has so many good ideas for this new campaign.” his word brimming with excitement. “I wish I could talk to you about it in detail. It’s going to incorporate your cleric’s acolyte background! I’m-”
“About that. I tried but I couldn’t get tomorrow off.”
“Like, at all? There’s really no one that could cover for you? It’s just for tomorrow.”
“I know, I know but Zack feels like it’s going to be super busy tomorrow and no one else wants to take the shift.” Clara pauses and says thoughtfully, “What if Esme, my character, goes on her own quest? We can just fill the others in the next session.”
“I guess that can work.”
A silence lays with them. Muffling their already shallow breaths and clasping their ears shut.
Bernard enjoys it. In this embrace, he can think. In the quality time he spends with this silence he doesn’t ponder about his day job at an IT helpdesk, his family’s concern for his lack of drive, or unfinished certification courses. There’s no room for such things. Instead, he plans fight sequences, weaves stories in-between plotted structure, builds and rebuilds port towns which might or might not meet a flaming end.
To Clara this silence tortures. It constricts like an invisible boa, wrapping tightly leaving her breathless and yearning for space. In an attempt to break free, she turns to Bernard and sees him peacefuly recreating different scenarios in his mind.
“Hey Ber.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think we should break up.”
“…Oh.”
