Together, alone.
The fast food restaurant is quiet save for the distant humming and beeping of equipment in the kitchen. From a corner near the entrance I observe two high school boys who have stopped in for breakfast before class.
As they are seated facing away from me I cannot hear their conversation clearly. What could straight teenage guys have to talk about at 6:30 a.m., I wonder. Sports; weekend plans; parties?
One of the two is slender, animated and charismatic. He has a shock of long, curly hair, deep black, and speaks in easy, well-modulated tones. He gestures, leans, importunes, engages; he is a budding politician, or perhaps a future religious leader.
The other, athletic, brown-haired, and buzz-cut, is taciturn and opaque. He interacts through timely monosyllabicity. Yes; no; sure; don't know. His responses are prompt and informative, but he lets the other do the conversational heavy lifting.
The black-haired boy pats his friend lightly on the shoulder as punctuation; his hand rests there for a time. His hand slides down then, along his friend's back, down to his waist, then back up to the middle of the back. They are calming and comforting movements, as when consoling a friend at a funeral. His hand moves back down then and rests on his friend's waist, casually intimate, and he turns to face him. I can hear them more clearly now.
Would you cheat on tests and homework, if it wasn't against the rules?
"Sure," his friend replies.
I wouldn't (he says with conviction and intensity) because if I cheated I wouldn't be learning anything.
"Yeah. True."
As they gather their things to leave, the black-haired boy finds a game piece. Do you want one of these? he calls out to his friend, who nods in response. The black-haired boy walks over and tucks the game piece into the pocket of his friend's hoodie. His friend smiles then, his masculine features lighting up, and I understand now what is between them. They wander out of the restaurant, but that is incidental. The world in which the two of them exist, together, alone, in the still, early morning, remains forever unchanged.
As they are seated facing away from me I cannot hear their conversation clearly. What could straight teenage guys have to talk about at 6:30 a.m., I wonder. Sports; weekend plans; parties?
One of the two is slender, animated and charismatic. He has a shock of long, curly hair, deep black, and speaks in easy, well-modulated tones. He gestures, leans, importunes, engages; he is a budding politician, or perhaps a future religious leader.
The other, athletic, brown-haired, and buzz-cut, is taciturn and opaque. He interacts through timely monosyllabicity. Yes; no; sure; don't know. His responses are prompt and informative, but he lets the other do the conversational heavy lifting.
The black-haired boy pats his friend lightly on the shoulder as punctuation; his hand rests there for a time. His hand slides down then, along his friend's back, down to his waist, then back up to the middle of the back. They are calming and comforting movements, as when consoling a friend at a funeral. His hand moves back down then and rests on his friend's waist, casually intimate, and he turns to face him. I can hear them more clearly now.
Would you cheat on tests and homework, if it wasn't against the rules?
"Sure," his friend replies.
I wouldn't (he says with conviction and intensity) because if I cheated I wouldn't be learning anything.
"Yeah. True."
As they gather their things to leave, the black-haired boy finds a game piece. Do you want one of these? he calls out to his friend, who nods in response. The black-haired boy walks over and tucks the game piece into the pocket of his friend's hoodie. His friend smiles then, his masculine features lighting up, and I understand now what is between them. They wander out of the restaurant, but that is incidental. The world in which the two of them exist, together, alone, in the still, early morning, remains forever unchanged.