The Spine

Lion

"What is your favorite pet?"

"A fennec."

"I said a pet."

She worked at a zoo. I'd named an animal to the one girl alive who'd know it wasn't a pet — and she wasn't going to let me have it.

So I hit back. She returned it harder. Neither of us blinked. Every sentence was a dare; every answer raised it.

We didn't stop. I'd put the phone down and pick it up two minutes later.

Late, half asleep, she'd still argue — losing the thread, finding it again, refusing to give up a point she'd half forgotten she was making. I'd be laughing too hard to take it from her.

On the phone while she drove to work. A song comes on the radio.

"Shut up, I wanna hear this."

So I shut up. I listened to her listen to a Twenty One Pilots song through three speakers at once — her radio, her phone, mine — happier than I'd been in years. Then she started singing, and I came in under her, quiet, then less quiet —

"No. You're ruining it."

I laughed. The song finished without me. She didn't blink, and she didn't want the call to end any more than I did. I was addicted to her — to the way she never tried to impress me, never reached for my attention, and knew the whole time she deserved it anyway.

I just stayed on the line, in silence, listening to my lion rawr.