Pocket Buddies

In the checkout line at CVS I noticed a new line of Pocket Buddies and picked up the “modern office” terrarium to examine. This particular Pocket Buddy wore a black suit and furiously typed away on a tiny, model laptop. His hair was coiffed into curls that did not move despite his exuberance. As someone with an office job, I scrutinized his habitat, giving in to that impulse to compare. Even as his fingers flew across the keyboard like a composer, I noticed that the screen of his miniature laptop was blank.loves a cozy pocket read the front. I flipped it over to see the care instructions, but all it said was do not let pocket buddy fall in love. I couldn't tell if the company was being serious or sarcastic. It's the same problem I have with most of modern society.I brought him home and unfurled my palm next to his terrarium exit. He sprinted up my arm and dove right into the pocket of my collared shirt. I could feel him nestling against my chest, which had softened with age, and it felt good to protect something, to give refuge to a living creature. When I took him out later to give him water in a bottle cap and a piece of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, he spoke. Not to me, necessarily, but to the world, pointing, cooing, and chattering in a frequency higher than I could understand.I knew I was primarily looking for a distraction. I'd quit the dating apps, worked from home, and had never experienced a longing look across a bookstore. Quite honestly, I was desperate to fall in love. It didn't matter if I got my heart broken. In fact, it'd be a blessing to feel such a blunt emotion. I halfway wanted to see if pain could grab me by the throat like so many of my favorite songs promised.Before they moved out, the couple an apartment over would fight, throw things, and toss casual barbs at each other. I'd press my ear to the wall, close my eyes, and listen to the stilted talk of the boyfriend containing his rage, desperate to claim the objective mantle. The spitfire rasp of the girlfriend, bullet points of an argument firing back. The yelps and grunts and careening of their makeup sex.I started bringing Pocket Buddy out to bars to show him off. People crowded around and laughed, offering Pocket Buddy their booze. I protected him. In front of a crowd, he'd resort to office activities, gesturing to a nonexistent PowerPoint or fixing his tie. I recognized the instinct, along with the impossible task of winning respect where there was none to begin with.Everything changed when we met a lady Pocket Buddy at a coffee shop. She was throwing sugar crystals into her owner's flat white. The Pocket Buddy was an office model herself, with a smart pantsuit and sensible jewelry.I didn't know how to approach the adult woman, sitting there with her scarf fluffed, bracelets catching the sun, and polished leather boots. So I let my Pocket Buddy out, and he sprinted right over and scaled up the chair. I followed him, apologizing and laughing. We watched our Pocket Buddies interact and listed off their funny habits until she told me to take the empty chair.Mine pulled himself up the side of my cup to get a sip of black coffee. He would've slipped in and drowned if successful — no sense of survival. Instead, I let Pocket Buddy onto my hand and extended my finger straight over the coffee like a diving board. He crawled out, craned his neck, and took a sip. In my periphery, I saw the woman look at me with great fondness. I felt myself change in that moment, nudging closer to the person she saw me as.I put my Pocket Buddy down, as the last thing he needed was more caffeine, and we continued our talk about destructive consumerism. Suddenly, the two Pocket Buddies were kissing, all tongues and searching hands. Mine bit my finger as I pried them apart, drawing a thin line of blood. I stuffed him in my pocket and felt him trying to scramble out.I ended up dating the coffee shop girl, Ana, and she moved in shortly after. She needed a place, I had room, and I would've done anything to feel my loneliness wane. It worked until it didn't, and neither of us could figure out where it went wrong, so we couldn't fix it either. I'd make grand proclamations about love and then feel like I was quoting a book or movie, but they were my words. I was pretty sure.I aspired to be sincere, but it always led to embarrassment, so she'd feel embarrassed too. It made me feel like I'd done something wrong, and we'd slink back to our respective rooms for the night. I couldn't say we'd been in love, so I couldn't call myself heartbroken either.We exhausted all possible conversations, but by that point our Pocket Buddies had fallen in love. We agreed it was wrong to separate them. They had boisterous conversations, faces nearly touching, and were voracious lovers. They'd both permanently shed their office clothing.My Pocket Buddy no longer sought out my pockets. With nothing for my heart to beat against, I'd find myself absentmindedly pressing a flat hand to my chest.I let Ana have the guest room and we gave the kitchen table to the Pocket Buddies. They built a small village out of kitchen tools and mail advertisements. The shinier, the better. We'd take turns running errands for the Pocket Buddies. I thought it'd be satisfying to take care of them, but the sustained passion of their relationship only made me lonelier. I'd lie still in my bed at night and listen to them. Their language was indecipherable, all that high-pitched gibberish.But I could tell when they were laughing.