wo orangutans sit on the cement floor of their habitat; just beyond the motionless tire swing. The concrete is flecked with twigs and crumpled leaves. Shit’s smeared on plaster walls designed to look like large grey stones. Their legs are wide open, shot out like darts. The Female orangutan breathes deeply, bends her wrinkled nose over her right knee, and wraps her hairy fingers around the sole of her foot. The Male orangutan watches her head lower and copies.
“Focus on your breathing,” her knee muffles her voice. “In and out. Deep and slow.”
The Female’s eyes are closed. The Male watches a tiny tumbleweed of dust and straw bounce by his leg, and forgets to breathe in his pose.
With your next exhale, walk your hands back to the centre,” she says. “And slowly roll up with your inhale, bringing your head up last.”
The orangutans have matching plastic yellow tags pierced through their ears. Hers is tucked between reddish orange furs, while his shines like a speck of sunshine against his dark ear. When she unfolds, he follows a second later.
“How’s your back feeling?”
“A little better. The stretching helps the knots.”
“Are they giving you any painkillers or physio for it?”
“Are you kidding?” He says. “They can barely keep our meds straight.”
“I know you’re frustrated, but be thankful you’re here.” she says. “I’ve stayed in a lot worse places.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” he stands, grabs his big toe, and lifts it to a low flung tree branch. “I was minding my own business—getting ready to call it a night. It was one of those nights so dark it seemed like the hills were cradling me, folding me into the jungle, the mango trees, the plodding beetles. Then...”
He trails off, sighs, and picks at a bug on his leg.
“I know,” she stays seated, brings her feet together, and lowers her head to them so her voice is once again muffled like the blurry faces banging on the glass where the floor comes to a rude stop. “You can’t fight it. The sooner you accept your
surroundings, the easier it will be. Play by their rules. Eventually, you’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” He drops his foot and swings to the next highest branch. “If I play by their rules, will they let me go home?”
She keeps her head lowered as the branch moans under his weight. When she finally looks up, she’s smiling, but won’t meet his gaze.

Miranda Newman is a writer and co-editor of AFTERNOON. Her writing has appeared in the Montreal Gazette, The Literary Review of Canada, The Walrus, and more. She is based in Toronto, Canada.
mirandanewman.com