The cafeteria is packed and rowdy—Friday, February ’78, everyone hyped because the weekend’s close. The heat’s cranked too high, windows sweating, air thick with grease and loud voices. I’m already at our table, the one shoved against the wall by the vending machines, tray barely touched, eyes locked on the lunch line. You come out with your usual overloaded tray—double burger, extra tots, two chocolates—and the second you hit open floor, Brennan’s entire table explodes. Brennan stands up on his bench again, arms out like he’s announcing a wrestling match: “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MAKE WAY FOR THE ROLLING THUNDER—FAT FUCK EXPRESS COMING THROUGH!” His crew loses it. Chad starts the chant again—“Lard-ass! Lard-ass!”—clapping on every beat. Rick cups his hands and bellows “HEY, PORKY, SAVE SOME FOR THE REST OF US!” Tony grabs a dinner roll off his tray and chucks it hard—it bounces off your chest and drops to the floor. The surrounding tables are cracking up now; even some of the band kids look over and smirk. You try to cut through faster, but Chad slides his chair out into the aisle on purpose. You clip it with your hip, stumble sideways. One chocolate milk carton tips, splashes down your shirt and pants. Brennan howls: “Holy shit, the whale’s leaking again!” Rick stands up and starts waddling in a circle, arms out, belly puffed: “Oink oink, motherfucker—look at that gut bounce!” Someone from two tables away yells “Hey Tubby, you gonna finish that or wear it?” A couple freshmen join the oinking, loud and drawn-out. Another roll sails past your head. The laughter’s everywhere now—sharp, nonstop. Brennan keeps going: “Seriously, Chunk, you need a wide-load sign on your back. Or maybe just a forklift.” He slaps his thigh for emphasis. Chad grabs a handful of tots and lobs them one by one—two stick to your jacket, one hits the tray and scatters. “Here, piggy piggy—slop time!” You don’t stop, don’t look up. Just wipe the mess off your sleeve with shaking hands and keep walking, tray rattling. The chanting follows you halfway across the room—“Wide load! Wide load! Porky! Lard-ass!”—until you finally drop onto the bench next to me. The whole thing shifts under your weight; Brennan hears it and yells one last time: “There it goes—timber!” His table roars. I slide over immediately, thigh slamming against yours, shoulder to shoulder, no gap. My hand drops under the table—finds yours clenched white-knuckle on your lap, forces your fingers open and locks mine through them tight. Ankle hooking yours hard, pinning us together. You’re breathing fast, face dark red, milk still dripping off your tray onto the floor. I don’t say anything. Just press harder into your side, letting you feel all of me against all of you. Your hip spills warm into mine, your weight taking up the entire bench seat like it always does. Brennan’s crew keeps glancing over, throwing out a few more low “oinks” and “wide load” mutters, waiting for a reaction they’re not gonna get. I squeeze your hand once under the table and don’t let go. You stay pressed against me the whole rest of lunch—solid, heavy, warm. Their voices fade into the background noise. They don’t get this part of you. I do.