[Time: 7 minutes]
M is for Monkey Butts
The elephants don’t want to leave their shelter, a man-made tree truck as big as an RV. They stand inside it, head-first, only their heavy flanks and their flick-flick tails sticking out.
“Too much rain,” Kady says.
“Hmph,” I say. Which isn’t really anything against Kady’s comment. Just that I’m cold and wet, even through my wool coat and my shit-brown hat, and my mouth has forgotten how to form warm-weather comments, like “You’re probably right,” and “I know, but I’m having fun anyway.”
We move on to the hippos. Different shelter — an overhanging of fake rocks — same result. A bunch of grey, wrinkled butts.
“Most places, you don’t have to pay to see wrinkled asses,” Kady says. He’s laughing, and some water runs down his blond bangs, drips into his green eyes.
I hate him sometimes.
“Let’s go see the primates,” he says. “Talk about big butts.”
I’ve gained some weight this year. I’m older than he is.
He takes my hand as we walk. His hand feels like it’s small, unwrinkled. The opposite of a bath-water hand. I let my fingers hang limp inside his grip. The puddles sploosh around us, litter my thighs with droplets. This is the wettest I’ve been in a year.
The primates are inside, lounging on wall-hung hammocks, limbs draped over the sides. They don’t look up when we stand in front of the glass, steaming from the wet and the heat. One chews a handful of popcorn, spits some of it out onto the one below him.
“Ooh, maybe they’ll fight,” Kady says.
Probably, I think. They always do.