Page 90 of The Unlikely Pair
As the days go by, it’s like we’re lancing every bit of civilization from ourselves. Every pretense we’ve wrapped ourselves in, every artifice we’ve clung to in our lives, is rendered meaningless in the face of our struggle for survival.
Because there’s no room for anything superfluous out here. There’s no space for our egos. No space for our ideologies, for the petty squabbles and political point-scoring.
There is simply Harry and Toby. Two men who need to eat. Who need to keep warm. Who need to keep themselves safe from injury.
Everything boils down to that.
Today, I’m pulled from my musings by the sight of a familiar plant growing near the base of a tree. I crouch to inspect it more closely.
“Hey, here’s some more of that moss to put in your shoes,” I call to Harry as I scoop up some of the precious spongy moss.
I’ve been keeping a close eye on Harry’s feet because if I don’t, he still has the tendency to walk until his heels are ragged and bloody. While I now understand where the part of himprepared to press through pain comes from, it doesn’t mean I allow him to indulge it.
Luckily, after some experimentation, we found the solution to keeping Harry’s feet blister-free is to stuff a thin layer of fresh moss in his shoes.
Harry comes back to me. “You know what they say, the road to survival is paved with good intentions and great improvisations.”
Harry has proven to be remarkably adept at creating his own idioms since I told him about the ones my mother and I used to make up. Of all the people I expected to carry on the weird tradition my mother and I used to have, Harry Matheson is the last person I ever expected.
But it provides us with entertainment, and in a weird way, it gives me a source of comfort. I like that traces of my mother’s humor now echo around the Scandinavian wilderness.
“I think it’s more: a moss a day keeps the blisters away,” I counter.
Harry snorts.
“Fortune favors the bold, and the bold favor a well-cushioned sole,” he quips back.
It’s my turn to snort-laugh, and Harry offers me a smile as he stuffs the moss into his shoes.
“Necessity is the mother of invention, and in this case, the mother of blister prevention,” I say.
Harry huffs another laugh. But then his smile fades into something more serious as he puts his shoes on and stands. He doesn’t start walking again but instead fixes his blue eyes on me. “How old were you when your mother passed away?” he asks.
A lump forms in my throat.
“Nineteen,” I say.
“You must miss her,” Harry says quietly.
The grief surges up, threatening to choke me. I avoid looking at Harry, scuffing the toe of my shoe in the dirt where I’ve just dug up the moss.
“Yes, well, there’s nothing quite like being left an orphan when you’re not quite out of your teenage years. Although Orphan Toby doesn’t have quite the same ring as Orphan Annie, does it?”
“Toby,” Harry says.
I refuse to look at him, continuing to blather on. “It’s a good thing they haven’t made a film out of my life because my rendition of ‘Tomorrow’ is subpar, I must admit. I struggle to hit those high notes.”
“Toby,” he says again.
I finally raise my gaze to his. The look in Harry’s eyes causes the next lighthearted words I was brewing to die in my throat.
He reaches out and pulls me against his chest. And I allow myself to rest there for a few moments, soaking in the solidness of Harry.
It’s annoying and frustrating how Harry can see through my attempts to cover up my feelings with humor. But it appears one part of me doesn’t actually mind.
However, there’s only so much sentiment I can take from Harry Matheson before my chest tightens.
Harry lets me withdraw from him, but not before he places a light, lingering kiss on my forehead.
