"To Discuss"

            “C’mon now, what’s with the laptop at the table?” Aiden teased, fussing with the cap to a small bottle of milk. He hadn’t the nails to pry off the rubber seal, eventually giving in, he slid it over to me.

            “I’ll turn in off in a moment, relax,” I popped off the top with considerable ease, though my nails are just as short as his—I’ve more experience in exploiting flaws in the seals. Having been up for an hour or two before the usual time, I wasted my time online, updating social media accounts, responding to emails, updating shops, the usual ordeal. It’s no more fun than any other job, though it allowed me considerably more freedom at the time, despite unreliable money, “It’s not as if you’re screen free all the time, hypocrite,” I caught him staring at his phone below the countertop—he’d set it on the table face down, once I brought it to attention. He’s not slick, never was.

            A sip of milk, he was considering grabbing a fruit or two from the bowl on the table, though appetite may not have been sufficient for all that. My laptop closed on itself with a satisfying click, giving off a beep or two to let me know it was put to bed appropriately—I would have pushed it to the side, if rubber feet weren’t so successful in securing it to the below surfaces. There was a silence, hesitant slurping filling the gaps between coherent thoughts. I tried to time it, find a rational pattern around when it’s right and proper to speak. No matter, I began with an inhale, “So, I bought a couple of mods the other day...”

            “Did you now?” he responded, rather quick.

            “Yes, well...” I thought, trying to conjure a way to explain myself in that moment, a few days back, “I thought maybe it was time I got back into it, yeah? We’re in a neighbourhood where it’s the norm, they look nice...why not, yeah?” Of course, these weren’t the purest form of my thoughts on the matter. I’d rather not have felt the need to buy them, go on living my vanilla life—but it felt wrong not to have them.

            “Y’sure something didn’t happen? I thought you didn’t give a damn about expectations, isn’t that why we came out here instead of getting a condo?” he offered, a twinge clear as day within his voice.

            “Yeah, just, seein’ em everywhere, thought it’d be nice... might try them on later, horns and whatnot,” I watch him pick up a piece of fruit, brow furrowed, peeling off the skin with his nails. I would have offered to grab him a spoon or knife, but it seemed tense. I wanted pull the screen of my computer back up, continue on with my distraction—though I wouldn’t.

            There must have been something swimming around in his head, trying to find reason in my words. We’ve done everything but norm, outside of our appearance. Not educated for prestige and highest pay, not reaching for the highest marks, nor most impactful research. We didn’t want to live in the city, where the money is made, where careers with futures are born and brought to life. We regressed, stepped outside the box, and removed ourselves from what was expected. Had we been born maybe a few generations earlier, we’d each have many sets of horns and a bin overflowing with aluminium tins—nope, just the teeth from broken combs.

            “Did someone say something to you? My sisters call you, something like that?”

            “No, just thought that it’d look nice—and with the political situation in the area, now feels like a good time to start experimenting with my appearance, doesn’t it?”

            “Politics, huh? Y’ scared?” he came to a conclusion, one not at all far from the truth—on the nose, really. I didn’t want to confirm his thoughts, to start an argument. But, as I was about to dismiss his—far from—outlandish accusations, he continued, “If it makes you feel more comfortable, go for it. You look cute no matter what you do with your face, try to stay recognizable, yeah?”

            He took a bite of his breakfast, fingernails orange with juice and pulp captured below them. I felt the mood die, lines from the sun filtering through the drapes making an odd, entertaining dance—the air conditioning pushed them around in such an unpredictable manner, something that could have been avoided if we’d only tie them back, or redirect the flow of air. But it’s alright, not as varied as a pixelated screen, it was something, “Yeah...how has work been treating you?” I tried to revive out world.

            “Settling in still, nice and easy stuff. Most is automated nowadays anyway. Any nets?” Aiden seemed to wish for the same, keep moving on.

            “Winter is around the corner, only put up a few. I’ll have to pull them down as soon as there’s snowfall anyway—don’t want it to be too much of a hassle,” my fingers rapped against the table’s surface. Though impatient, I didn’t want to be impolite and leave him there.

            “Any other work lined up? Or, is the bread mine, for winter?”

            “Was thinking about indoor raising, maybe. Might have to look for a part time in the area.”

            We didn’t have anywhere to go, other than run talk in circles, into the ground with time. Neither of us had ever been good with conversation, public speaking—maybe that’s why we got along so damn well, equally matched in incapability.

            “Y’know,” he had that voice, that preachy tone preparing for faulty inspiration, “I’m alright with nasty looks and questions about my history. You don’t have to be ashamed about wanting a mod, or trying to hide them, ask my thoughts about them...if you feel safer with a hunk of plastic on you, go for it.”

            “That’s the worst way you could have worded that, but thank you—” I knew he was being a bit overdramatic, trying his best to play it up. Yet still, the mood was off, uncomfortable in a general sense. Maybe, I shouldn’t have brought up the horns in the first place.

            “Of course, we communicate in this house, don’t we? Everything can be solved with a bit of talking, and figuring things out,” I felt as if he were quoting me, something from years ago, a rough patch or big decision.

            “Right—want me to get you a damn spoon, or are you going to have orange nails for the next month?” I laughed through my words, couldn’t help myself from grimacing at his visible food struggle. No matter his response, I had stood up, shuffling across the chilly floor to fetch the proper utensil.

            “I’m sure there’s a modification for that, Rozny” he joked, and the world began to turn.