Chucky

Three o' clock, nine o' clock. That's where you're supposed to put your hands on the wheel. Or at least, that's what Andy says. Makes shit sense to me- wheels aren't clocks, last I checked. They drive the car, not tell the time. But that's where Andy's hands are, and for some reason, that's where I'm choosing to look right now. Are his hands even in this three-o-nine-o position? Hell if I know. I never actually got my license. I never even bought a car.

Doesn't mean I never drove one. Were my hands ever in that position? I doubt it.

"Aunt Maggie called today," he says, turning the car slightly. His eyes are darting between the rearview and side mirrors. Now it's his eyes, huh? They say eyes are like, the windows to souls, or some shit like that. Wonder what his eyes are supposed to say about his soul? They're brown- most people think that's a boring color. But, for me, it's- it's different. They aren't just brown-brown, you get what I mean? They change. They glow sometimes, almost like they're alive. Warm and alive.

"That's nice," I answer. I almost called that lady Aunt Maggie once, thanks to Andy. I never thought anyone would rub off on me, but recently, I've started to find that I'm doing things that Andy would do. I wonder if he does anything like me? His hands are still right where they were before on the wheel. Careful. He's always so careful. "What'd the bitch want?"

He makes a face at me. I used to just curse for the hell of it, because I could, but lately it's just so I can catch Andy in different expressions. He's always so calm- smiling or with a light grin on his face. To me, it's nice seeing him cross his eyes or stick his tongue out once in a while. I like making him playful. It's not as if I don't want him to be happy- I want him fucking happy. He deserves it, the little bastard. And I like his eyes when he's happy, goddammit, I really love his eyes.

I fucking love your eyes. Do you hear me?

He said something. "What?" I ask. He sighs and huffs, lips pouting. If he wasn't driving, I would just kiss them, right now.

Fuck you for looking cute. That's what you get for being a distraction. Now I didn't hear what you said, you little shit.

"Were you even listening to me?" he says, to which I respond with, "No- when do I ever listen?" like the classy bitch that I am.

"I said, Aunt Maggie's pregnant." He turns up the music a bit. I don't know the name of this song, but it makes me think of those sunshine springtime songs. Gay. But you know, I've come to like them. They make me think of Andy. Andy makes me think of sunshine, in his own way. Probably because he's always so bright and full of energy.

Like when he woke me up yesterday morning, all kissing and cuddling into my sleep time.

Fucking dick.

"That's cool, I guess," I tell him blandly, and he lets go of the wheel with one of his hands to punch me in the shoulder, but only gently, God forbid he hurt me. Always so careful, and sometimes it drives me crazy. But- I won't admit it to him, you will never catch me say this out loud- but I don't mind it, the way he seems to watch out for me, to make sure that I'm okay. It's more than anyone's ever done for me. So maybe he goes a little too far, like making sure I wear jackets during winter (like I'm two, geezus, Andy, I'm not a child. I'm a fucking adult), but it's the thought that counts, right?

Hands on the wheel, he's careful with driving too. Maybe he's just careful with everything?

I like his hands, too. Watching them carefully hold onto the wheel. There's strength in those hands. I saw him build our house with them. He does push- ups with them- one time, I sat on him just to be a dick and see if he could still lift himself with my fat-ass. He could- of course, of course, I don't really weigh that much, now do I? I don't know what I had expected.

He can fix or break with those hands.

That's why it amazes me how gentle he can be with them. I remember the first time he hugged me, after he came home when we all thought he was dead. I expected this crushing hug. It felt like hugging a cloud more than anything, and I thought at first it was because he had been traveling for so long and was just tired. But even now, when he touches me, it's like he's scared I'll break.

Even when I was a doll, Andy, I was made of plastic, not fucking glass. I don't break that easy, you know.

"What are you looking at?" Shit. He's caught me staring, eyebrows raised curiously, though his eyes are still on the road. The sun is shining in them right now- liquid gold. Gold piss. That's the color of your eyes.

Warm- that's the color of your eyes.

"Not much, dipshit," I say, and he laughs, dimples on his face, dragging my attention to his cheek. His scar- I see it all the time. He's lucky that's all he came out with (besides the always there bruises, of course). Most people would have been battered, with huge rips on their back and chest and legs and arms and fucking everywhere.

You know what? Screw that. Most people would have been dead.

He laughed at my anger. That shows just how long the kid's been with me. He fucking knows. He just knows I don't mean it. Anyone around us always asks about it, why he hangs out with such a sour cunt like me. And do you know what he does? He just smiles and shakes his head, and says, "You just don't understand." One time he made a joke about it to me, saying he had a special translator downloaded for it. "Whatever you say, I just type it in, and then it tells me," he had said, and I had just shoved him away, shouting a nice "Fuck you."

Fuck you in my language means a great many things, he tells me. It's very versatile, apparently.

I like that though- now I don't have to get all itchy and uncomfortable with the I love you you're so special blah-blah. That's how I say I love you. Dipshit. Screw you for being able to read into me like I'm Oliver Twist.

(Also known as please don't stop reading.)

I just sit back and face the windshield. This way, I can still just look at him from the corner of my eyes and not have him know. He already knows anyways, that I love him. I don't have to say it. He knows that I like it when he hugs me and treats me like I'm fragile, even though I gripe at him about it all the time. Because he just knows. Because he was careful, and he figured it out.

He and I understand that it's not saying I'm weak when he handles me gently. It's just showing that he actually cares- like I actually matter to him. He doesn't have to explain it to me, I don't have to tell him that it's what I want- we just sort of know. Which works for me, I'd rather not have an awkward bonding-time moment where we're both snot-nosed and clinging like in those Hallmark movies he watches with his mom sometimes. (Honestly, what is it with women and that channel?) Fuck you, Andy; I love you.

I'm not a clock, Andy, and I sure as hell ain't a wheel.

But if you love me as carefully as you drive and tell time, I hope you always keep your hands steady like this, three o clock, nine o clock.