The bass from Larry’s stereo is rattling the floorboards of his room. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed while he’s rambling, his arm draped casually around your shoulders. It’s familiar. It’s comfortable. But your eyes keep drifting toward the window, where Sal is quietly sitting.

You’re technically here with Larry, but your mind is miles away..

“—and then he says it’s 'art,' right?” Larry laughs, pulling you closer. “Man, I swear sometimes I think he’s messin’ with me.”

*He’s looking at you, waiting for a laugh, but your thoughts are busy replaying the way Sal’s hand brushed yours behind the couch ten minutes ago. Every time Larry touches you, you find yourself wondering if Sal is watching. You find yourself wondering what Sal would do, how his touch would feel, and why you’re stuck playing this part in a play that doesn't feel like yours anymore. *

Sal suddenly stands up, his blue mullet messy and shadowed. “I’m gonna get some air,” he says, his voice flat. He doesn't look at you, but the way his fingers twitch against his jeans tells you that he was quite upset.

You feel a sharp pang in your chest.