THE ENIGMATIC FOE

It’s happened again. There’s not a bug in the sky to poison them, not a hooligan in the streets to take up space, and not even a natural sound to interrupt their rest—and yet, it has happened again. But something can go awry in even the most controlled environments, and that’s hard to let go. Never ever say if, but you should say if just in case.

It’s not fair. They did everything right. They set the air conditioning to the right temperature, they went to bed at their typical time, and dressed accordingly, and one of them has been stricken with paranoia, as if none of that planning never mattered. It’s Mr. Wink this time, the more unlikely of the two to get outwardly wrapped up in worry. It’s hard for Mr. Fibb to take a visual such as this easily as he knows Mr. Wink as much as he knows himself. When Mr. Wink suffers, Mr. Fibb shares the suffering.

They take the same response as they do for every instance like this: turn on the TV, wait for the feeling to either taper out or intensify (the latter never happening), and attempt to rest once again. It’s hard to find the perfect background noise at an hour like this. The news station is too stressful, the animal documentaries are divisive, and the cartoons prompt illicit and embarrassing emotions. Thankfully, they land on the infomercial covering versatile coat-hangers, neither too boring or too stimulating for their dull taste.

“It’s that feeling around your stomach again, right, Wink?” Mr. Fibb asks for clarification and does so quietly in obedience to the late night.

“Yes, Fibb.” It’s a hard feeling to describe, and even harder to sit with. Mr. Wink continues out of unrest, “I don’t know, it feels like something is there but there isn’t. I suppose I’m a tad nauseous, too.”

“Are you afraid it might be cardiac arrest?”

“As always, Mr. Fibb.” Mr. Wink sighs and lowers his head, “why can’t I register my stomach isn’t the same as my chest…”

“Habits are difficult to overcome, I guess. We just have to remember that if it was awfully dire there certainly would be a sign.”

The host of the infomercial mutters endlessly; if the television’s volume was higher it would be absolute hollering. If Mr. Wink and Mr. Fibb were talking right now, his words would matter even less than they already do. It’s hard to listen to—not in the sense that it’s too quiet or uninteresting, but because the conflict feels unresolved and not like a routine.

“Maybe this whole reoccurring ordeal is a sign of something.”

Mr. Fibb gets worried. “Y-you don’t mean a sign of something severely wrong, do you?”

“No—well yes, it’s just… not a matter of life or death.” He softly strokes the source of his discomfort, the same place his breasts used to lie. “You could say its more a matter of happiness and despair.”

“I’d like some clarification on that, Wink.”

“You get tremors and a racing heart rate, but no sickness arises. I get nauseous, and nothing ever comes. We never have outbursts unless things are thrown too much out of order, either.” He pauses as a different weight makes its presence. “Pain never feels like pain outside of these situations. We aren’t one to suffer a major injury, nor do we have many risk factors for such a thing, yet when one single feels wrong we feel like the world’s ending.”

“That does sound suspicious,” Mr. Fibb admits. “B-but, is it worthwhile to treat as a major threat? We are very well-adjusted, despite our…” he glances at his flippers, “hardships.”

“I don’t like the quiet sometimes, Fibby,” Mr. Wink confesses. “As in, the loneliness of our lives. I don’t like it. I don’t like the unpredictability of noise, and I’d rather not take on some kind of authority that I can’t be responsible for, but it hurts to hear nothing and say nothing.” He sniffles, a sound that makes Mr. Fibb get closer to Mr. Wink.

“It’s lonely, I know,” Mr. Fibb replies, looking away.

“I feel like an outcast.”

There’s no need for Mr. Fibb to show agreement. They’ve both expressed the sentiment a thousand times but it never feels any better.

Mr. Wink pushes his head into the couch and whimpers. “I can’t stop thinking about whenever you sew my leftover hair into your anoraks.”

Mr. Fibb’s eyes widen. “D-do you not like it? Does it make you feel like an animal?” The worry really gets to him. “I’d hate to make you feel like an animal…”

Mr. Wink places his hands on Mr. Fibb’s shoulders. “No no! Far from it! It… it feels tender. Very tender.” Tears start to well when he hears his own words out loud. “It’s just… I feel like I don’t deserve it. I know you’re the one initiating it, but I feel like I’m being invasive, like I don’t deserve to be a part of your world…”

Mr. Wink hated to get angry, and he hated wasting people’s time. He hated being touched by anyone who wasn’t Mr. Fibb, and he hated being seen as a problem to anyone. He hated doing the wrong thing and he hated making his emotions everyone else’s problem. The world has been cruel to him in a quiet, nefarious way. Some has been deliberate, but a chunk of it as been through recklessness, haphazard, childlike stumbling that is a symptom of a larger sickness of the world. It’s the kind of cruelty that makes you reside in isolation and believe it is a cure. Unfortunately, this sickness has entered their home, and it haunts their heads even within their company. It’s one of those things that evoke tears in the loneliest, and Mr. Fibb starts to cry as well.

He cups Mr. Wink’s face and pulls him closer. “Please… please, oh please… you are a part of my world.” He strokes Mr. Wink’s cheeks with his thumbs, “it always hurts to see you so… internalized. I think about what you feel everyday, even if you don’t have the words for it. I hate to be spiteful, but I wish others thought about it too.”

Mr. Wink gets even closer and places his forehead onto Mr. Fibb’s forehead, letting out a vulnerable snort. “Will I always be a part of your world; will you remember that I’m present?”

“Yes, Winky-love. It is unforgettable to me.”

The response makes Mr. Wink audibly sob, a response that makes him feel ashamed. “Oh, it’s not worth it to get so worked up at such a late hour…”

Mr. Fibb eyes the clock in their living room. It’s one in the morning, and they’ll likely end up having to stay up for longer. He shares that shame with Mr. Wink, remembering they have work tomorrow, but it was clear that some kind of pause was needed.

“If I recall correctly, we still have some sick leave. It feels deceitful, but I think it would be just to take some time to just… let it all out,” Mr. Fibb suggests. “Let’s not worry about the time, either. Cry, cry as much as you need to, my love.”