kitchen, his quick strides making him almost a blur in his black boxer shorts.
Greg grunted something back, turning down the volume before the neighbours began pounding on the walls. Flicking through commercials, Greg paused to watch the one with the caveman. Ooooh, poned again.
Joe was on his fifth year of a four-year running scholarship, abusing the system that paid for everything as long as he kept coming in first. From his room came quiet panting and the soft strains of violins. It was a weird mix – Joe’s classical tastes and low-income clutter. Greg figured Joe had money somewhere. Maybe one of those hard-ass families that wouldn’t let you dip into the family fortune until you turned thirty or something. Joe had the attitude of killing time while he waited for something. The TV and electronic equipment had come with a service plan, not scrape marks from the back of someone’s truck.
Greg’s eyes flicked into the kitchen at the snap of Joe opening his own bottle. Joe downed half of it as he came into the living room. He was clean shaven despite it being night, smelling faintly like the girl’s perfume and the shower he’d probably taken before she came over. His boxers hung loose on him, and sweat still shone on his shoulders between the new red marks from the girl’s fingers. Eyes bright from the sex and exuding energy, he stretched out in the chair kitty-corner to the couch. A heavy sigh came from him, and his foot jittered. Up and down, that was Joe. If he didn’t know better, Greg would say his room-mate was an addict, but he’d never found a pill or a syringe. Maybe he was just careful.
“Rough night?” Greg asked sarcastically.
“Rock and roll, baby.” Eyes on the TV, Joe stared, lost, but his hand came out and they bumped knuckles. “Can’t live with them . . .”
Greg sipped his drink, feeling it wake him up. “And you can’t shoot ’em.”
Joe laughed, still high on the woman in the next room. Greg clicked it to MTV, dropping the remote and stifling his envy. He’d been living like a monk the last eight months, not daring to bring a girl here. Not only would he have to clean, but Joe would give her that little grin of his, toss his hair, and she’d be singing soprano to the 1812 Overture in three days.
“I wanna go for a run,” Joe said, slamming the rest of his drink and standing. “Get up.”
“Now?” Greg looked at the black window. Yeah, it was Friday, but he was too tired from his shift to hit the bar, much less the streets. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Chicken?” Joe started to do warm-ups. “Get up. Don’t make me run down there alone. All kinds of weird crap out there.”
“Which is why I don’t want to go running in the middle of the night.” Greg settled back into the cushions, eyes going to the mud he’d tracked in. Maybe he should vacuum tomorrow. Buy a mud mat with his next pay cheque instead of beer. Did they even have a vacuum? “Grow up, will you?”
A soft, slow laugh came out of Joe, and Greg looked askance at him, thinking his eyes were unusually bright. “The boogie man?” Joe intoned, wiggling his fingers at him. “Vampires going to get you? Ooooh. You’d better watch out. You’d better not cry.”
“Piss on it.” Greg began to click the remote. Pow – blow away the preacher man. Pow – waste the western. Pow – Billy Mayes hawking super knives, cut down mid-shout.
Joe laughed, and Greg’s eyes squinted in anger even as he warmed. “Then you tell me how a freaky white kid can run up the side of a building,” Greg said, eyes flicking to the open bedroom door as the sound of the shower filtered out. Yeah, it was embarrassing, and yeah, he might have been drunk at the time. But he had seen it, and his heart pounded just remembering it. It had given him the creeps, watching the small, dark-haired figure run straight up the wall like he was some kind of superhero.
“Dude, I told you to lay off the drugs.”
“I don’t do
Greg grunted something back, turning down the volume before the neighbours began pounding on the walls. Flicking through commercials, Greg paused to watch the one with the caveman. Ooooh, poned again.
Joe was on his fifth year of a four-year running scholarship, abusing the system that paid for everything as long as he kept coming in first. From his room came quiet panting and the soft strains of violins. It was a weird mix – Joe’s classical tastes and low-income clutter. Greg figured Joe had money somewhere. Maybe one of those hard-ass families that wouldn’t let you dip into the family fortune until you turned thirty or something. Joe had the attitude of killing time while he waited for something. The TV and electronic equipment had come with a service plan, not scrape marks from the back of someone’s truck.
Greg’s eyes flicked into the kitchen at the snap of Joe opening his own bottle. Joe downed half of it as he came into the living room. He was clean shaven despite it being night, smelling faintly like the girl’s perfume and the shower he’d probably taken before she came over. His boxers hung loose on him, and sweat still shone on his shoulders between the new red marks from the girl’s fingers. Eyes bright from the sex and exuding energy, he stretched out in the chair kitty-corner to the couch. A heavy sigh came from him, and his foot jittered. Up and down, that was Joe. If he didn’t know better, Greg would say his room-mate was an addict, but he’d never found a pill or a syringe. Maybe he was just careful.
“Rough night?” Greg asked sarcastically.
“Rock and roll, baby.” Eyes on the TV, Joe stared, lost, but his hand came out and they bumped knuckles. “Can’t live with them . . .”
Greg sipped his drink, feeling it wake him up. “And you can’t shoot ’em.”
Joe laughed, still high on the woman in the next room. Greg clicked it to MTV, dropping the remote and stifling his envy. He’d been living like a monk the last eight months, not daring to bring a girl here. Not only would he have to clean, but Joe would give her that little grin of his, toss his hair, and she’d be singing soprano to the 1812 Overture in three days.
“I wanna go for a run,” Joe said, slamming the rest of his drink and standing. “Get up.”
“Now?” Greg looked at the black window. Yeah, it was Friday, but he was too tired from his shift to hit the bar, much less the streets. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Chicken?” Joe started to do warm-ups. “Get up. Don’t make me run down there alone. All kinds of weird crap out there.”
“Which is why I don’t want to go running in the middle of the night.” Greg settled back into the cushions, eyes going to the mud he’d tracked in. Maybe he should vacuum tomorrow. Buy a mud mat with his next pay cheque instead of beer. Did they even have a vacuum? “Grow up, will you?”
A soft, slow laugh came out of Joe, and Greg looked askance at him, thinking his eyes were unusually bright. “The boogie man?” Joe intoned, wiggling his fingers at him. “Vampires going to get you? Ooooh. You’d better watch out. You’d better not cry.”
“Piss on it.” Greg began to click the remote. Pow – blow away the preacher man. Pow – waste the western. Pow – Billy Mayes hawking super knives, cut down mid-shout.
Joe laughed, and Greg’s eyes squinted in anger even as he warmed. “Then you tell me how a freaky white kid can run up the side of a building,” Greg said, eyes flicking to the open bedroom door as the sound of the shower filtered out. Yeah, it was embarrassing, and yeah, he might have been drunk at the time. But he had seen it, and his heart pounded just remembering it. It had given him the creeps, watching the small, dark-haired figure run straight up the wall like he was some kind of superhero.
“Dude, I told you to lay off the drugs.”
“I don’t do
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