Trickling Chance

Cityscapes,

The umbrella term consisting of the last  settings many a souls aside from weathered locals would imagine, let alone recognize, as relaxing. 

The date was the dwindling days of a closing month of the calendar year. 

Which calendar/s? 

Fifty years prior, seasons as quantifiable was as alluring of an illusion as was the twist of manipulating aesthetics into a candy cane fantasy with a crucifix adorned athame. 

Nowadays, whenever that be, thanks to the delayed gratification of acknowledging Salvador Dali’s surrealist contribution to time itself warping our misunderstandings of so, gold or wrought-iron minute and hour arrows alike, electronic digits with uniquely color-palette derived noble gases, vanished their mechanical continuum, absolute zero becoming their new code of measure. 

Yet, even in the presence of the atemporal actualized, long-time city inhabitants and awe-struck day tourists, intermingled in happenstance with the few-time laissez-faire travelers chasing their next snort of promotion; knew instinctively when it was time to place holiday lights anywhere that yearned to be garnished or adorned. 

Whether they be the myriad of Pride variety; reclaiming the ever-elusive 12/25 hunch to be another LGBTQIAPK++ festive gathering, or whether the appearance of angels in translucent cake-battery firefly capsules, warm captivating lightning rods minus the risks of a sizzled incantation on one’s skin were rife at every Avenue and tree. 

And along with the hunch to raise the glowing array of constructed orbs or neon crayons, there came the hunch, if only with chosen family, to gather. 

But was it for gathering sake? 

Even with a minuscule 2% of the population finally shaking loose the remaining stubborn remnants of obligational togetherness, it appeared that the Silicon Bay’s collection of affluent clusters still comprised of those pedantically in need of a relational rehab, emphatic of the motto: peacefully to death with compromise. 

And at the supposed remaining nocturne hour of the day ready to start anew, according to magnetically parallax-ed moon dials, two souls yearning for the peaceful festivity of glowing encapsulated rainbows, were at shattering point with the bland ambivalence of a pulverized pane of mendable ‘familial’ aesthetics. 

Who were they kidding? Both mutually and uniquely were through with believing in family, miracles bereft in the one area of their livelihoods that wanted to settle into the couch rather than sprint for the front door. 

They knew better than to settle remotely near the complacency of the unspoken that needeth be said. 

These two warm personalities, begging to themselves and to their sought places and people, ventured toward the central floating elevator feature from each principal structure of the Twin Monitor Corporation building. 

As per many corroborated extance encyclopedia deep dives, within the name conveyed the design, two buildings with the most modern neoliberalist metal-concrete-glass cubist cubicle appeal, in a centrally directed handshake cultivated within a mid-height bridge, virtually suspended above the usually busy and momentarily empty streets, the sidewalks most adjacent only consisting of classically amber street lamps. 

The kicker was another arbitrary inspiration of the absurd, hinting and glinting additional glitz, such as Willy Wonka’s rocket elevator acting as last employee-last exit centerpiece having full capacity to move in orbital automaton fashion, thankfully according to an algorithm that actually wanted their inhabitants to see another day. 

The two mortals in question, anything but mere, walking closer to one another’s vicinity, quietly hoped one last attempt at a miracle. Any other circumstance than prolonging an already unwanted visit to estranged cishet purists would be acceptable, kissed to the ground in thanks. 

They had finally arrived at the Willy Wonka esca-vator’s command buttons; the pair of doors seconds away from unsealing their questions and possibly answering their hopes. 

The duo in the midst of solemnly clocking out oddly began to smile, their warmth shone through after all. 

The first of the two, starting from the East structure, hair arced in a lateral parabolic fashion emulating short becoming lengthy, combed leading to natural waves, chestnut leading to dark gold ombré; expressed comfortably an unsuspectingly outstanding demeanor and laidback ambiance; their dark forest green holiday sweater’s contoury design conveying the ridiculousness of a made-belief holiday that appropriates proclaimed as universal-

“I wish all holiday sweaters said that”

Looking down, the first of the two chuckled, in response to the second, “You’re telling me.”

As for the second of the two, with West structure well behind them, hair down in springy waves diagonally and virtually flat within the middle vertical, consistently refracting the metallic hazelnut features atop and alongside and behind their head; their response indicated in them a playful confidence, a cheeky shrewdness, and teasing wit; a kindhearted delinquent, ready to support and enable at will. 

“So I take you’re especially fond of Krampus and imps over elves.” 

The second person smirked at the idea, namely of their own ‘tis-the-season weather-sweater of some psychedelically squirrelly imps and a mischievously pleased winter trickster, of being bantered and challenged, “Would you count my shrine, and possibly my signed will?”

The first’s iridescent earthy-speckled irises almost disappeared as their pupils widened in sheer near-belief. 

“Gotcha”, the second grinned in lifelike imitation of the nom nom emoji 

“Phew, for a second I was worried there.”

 “I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I always appreciate one’s concern, makes me feel valid in how twisted I am.” 

“Ha!”, they being the one coming from the East structure laughed sheepishly, “I’m always a fan of the twisted. Inspires me to misbehave accordingly.” 

“I see that, especially with the winter wonderland sweater sentiment repeating Brandon Roger’s timeless mantra of “fuck you and fuck Christmas” .”

The laughter began to escalate between  the two, if not erupt. One miracle unbeknownst was granted, a virtually empty massive working complex and equally awe-inspiring sky bridge allowed them to burst into the floor with laughter with not another presence present to notice. 

The hilarious rapport and knowing giggles took a pause at the sight of a spinning elevator floating to the entry/exit chamber doors. 

With sighs of preparedness and resilience emanated from both, the first of the two risked a question, “I presume this elevator to be the elephant in the room” 

The one adorning imps for elves in time affirmed, “You would be right.” 

The two newly acquainted and lengthily bantered darlings entered their ticket back to the streets and inevitably to wherever each was staying. 

The first few minutes appeared to be engulfed in greater silence that they first originated within the enclosed bridge. 

Both decided to take a leap and blurted in unison the question, “Shitty family?” 

Chuckles of relief washed over, merrier miracles granted, another soul not afraid. 

The two decided to play a sentence-finishing game of Simon says, that went a little something like this: 

“Let me guess” 

“Gender is a construct, while said family concluded you’re delusional”

 “Same fuckos with the name family think fucking many is a phase.”

“Whining mistaken as wails begging for you to be alike.”

 “Meanwhile they try to rub the compulsorily heterosexual away by recreating their own pornography.”

 “Wait, what?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

 “You’re terrible.”

 “You like terrible.” 

“You’re right, I do.” 

“Speaking of, how terrible we’re the only ones in here.” 

“I know, such a travesty.” 

As the banter resurfaced and rose higher, the elevator notably slowed, approaching ground-level terminus. 

Yet, the two passengers in said discussion, expressed little concern, rather none, and if anything, mutually knew that arrival did not necessarily entail parting. 

The conversation continued once more with the one wearing the bird-flipping to X-mas sweater, “So, I gather you’re also wondering whether to return to the old habits of holiday hay day un-fun house, or whether to try something new?” 

The mischief-maker in the imp sweater already knew the answer, “I’m open for something new, if you are, albeit with someone new.” 

Both smiled, with the X-mas not-for-me sweater wearing soft speaker happy with the former’s answer, “good idea.”

The traveling contraption was about to make contact with the ground-level holder, the duo looking intently into each other, 

Smirks and proximity knew that cycles were well broken and pleasure was chosen. 

The gentle thud of elevator against the end of the line woke the first of the duo beneath their covers, a pale makeshift of sheet metal laying oblong as a result of the overflow of rainwater allowing additional gravity to clatter it against the railing. 

“Bré, darling, ready for the holiday gathering later?” 

Sighing, the voice unfortunately clear to the first of the two, their name spoken by one of their one-sided relatives, Bré felt warm about the ongoings of the previous evening, though was curious about what had happened or to where their newly acquainted banter buddy had gone. 

As they rolled over to collect themself and further rest, they felt paper crumble beneath their mid drift. 

A hand sized lined-paper note greeted them, refreshingly readable pen-person-ship inscribed with the following: “You’re adorable when you need a blankey -

Vix (Xé/Xem/Any you’d like) 

P.s. when you text/call me, tell me your name and pronouns,

looking forward to next time ;) ”

Additionally, a newspaper left blank that required one’s hand to swipe over the main picture to holo-graphically activate the writing revealed the headline, “innovative elevator design left at ground-level last night, late-night rendez-vous?”

Blushing intensely, a word uttered from the flustered Bré’s mouth.

 “Damnit” 

#ReedsyTwist