We said we used spit only because we didn’t have a knife.
You and I in Deadman’s Woods, pinned to the Earth by the weight of the homework in our backpacks, shadows of dancing maple canopies dappling our skin, I felt the buzzing of the cicadas dancing along my spine, as we each cupped our right hand, spit into the palm. Your hand hot and damp in mine, each of us tried to outgrip the other, as I failed to conjure images of my father, the way he greeted the other men at his worksite, his old Army buddies. “Same as blood brothers,” you said to me.
“Forever,” I said to you.
We really used spit because even then we both knew spit is more intimate than blood. From my mouth to your flesh, from your mouth to my flesh, the bond we really craved while we shook, fear and stupidity filling our lungs, stealing our breath.
Tom Weller is a former factory worker, Peace Corps volunteer, Planned Parenthood sexuality educator, and college writing instructor. His fiction has appeared in Booth, Pidgeonholes, Barrelhouse, and Milk Candy Review, among others. His fiction collection And There Came Forth a Great Fish: Stories was published in 2022. He lives in Texas with his wife and his ill-mannered but big-hearted rescue dog, Beans. He occasionally tweets from @WellerTom1.
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