He’s hunched forward on the couch, legs spread, slamming on the buttons of his controller impossibly fast. He’s screaming gogogogogogogo and all of a sudden the controller has a mind of its own. It lifts his arms above his head, lifts his body from the couch—as if the height of the controller affected the speed of the character. From this position I can see the tiny bald spot right above his left ear. It’s shaped like a hammer, and he once told me that, when he was little, his dad would say it gave him special strength, so he could be just like Thor and his hammer.
I think he beat the level because all of a sudden he flops back on the couch and throws his feet on the table while the word “EXCELLENT” fills the screen in big yellow letters. He’s massaging the skin between his thumb and forefinger. His bangs are damp with sweet. His eyes are dry from not blinking for so long.
“Do you want a pop tart?” he asks me. I shake my head.
He’s rummaging through the cupboards when I hear a thwump. I turn and see the box lying sideways on the ground, pop tarts spilling out. He uses both arms to scoop them up,then he throws all of them on the counter but one. His hands are shaking as he tries to unwrap it, his fingers unable to properly grip the thin wrapping. The longer he tries get a good grasp the worse the shaking becomes. Eventually he takes it between his teeth and rips the whole package open, sending the pop tart flying. It lands in pieces in front of him, the wrapper crinkling between his trembling fingers. He glances over and our eyes meet, but he immediately looks away, turning his back to me. He sits there a minute, trying to get his tremors under control, then eventually picks up most of pop tart, kicking the crumbs under the table.
When he sits back down he brings his face to the pop tart pieces, so his still unsteady hands don’t have to travel so far. I know he hates when people watch him eat, so I stick my phone in front of my face, but I can’t help casting sideways glances to check his progress.
“Wanna play Super Smash Bros?” I ask when he’s done eating.
“Sure.” I switch out the games and as we’re playing, his hands become sure again, handling the controller like it’s an extension of himself. His fingers are nimble, hitting complex combinations and sending my character flying off the screen. He glances at me and gives me a wink, because his hands don’t shake. They don’t falter. They don’t fail him.
Realistic Fiction
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