Strange and Aloof

A journal/observation assignment for Brit Lit. Kinda fun. :)

We successfully study at my apartment for about an hour before the silence and bareness become painfully distracting. We, My Strange Friend and I, need utter only one word: Mahoney’s.
I plink down and he plops, ordering our favorites from memory and recognizing The Waitress’s smile. Shadowy regulars and giggly familiars fill each booth, glasses raised and lowered, orders sung and carried. Football glares from every wall, miming the week’s failures and accomplishments.
Across from us, I spot a familiar pair. His hair is still too long and hers is too short— That Couple shuffles chess pieces across the board. I know their history and guess their future: tumultuous. Each smile betrays dozens of frowns, tears, and “headaches.” Under buttery lamps, he melts into the booth. She, crisp brown hair flipping, commands the conversation, draining compliments from his pale lips. Behind them, The Trendy Two gesticulate dramatically, white teeth glancing off black-framed glasses. Their past is as mysterious to me as her real hair color, but I like to imagine their wedding. I can’t picture her in white.
The fries arrive, steaming, and we dig in greedily. My Strange Friend claimed he wasn’t very hungry, but manages to eat significantly more than his portion before I can make a dent. My growls don’t scare him much anymore. Shame. He continues to relate to me the tragedy of Ex-Girlfriend The Second, and I feign interest in his metaphysical poetry diary. I hope he wasn’t this open with her, though that would certainly explain things.
Before long, a new friend, Mr. Aloof, joins us. His chillness gives me shivers, and I resolve to crack him. I lean forward and ask about his classes, his recent performance, even theology, but his arms remain welded to his puffy chest. Mr. Aloof does not even pink at overt flirtation. Something is off there.
The guys go out to walk about, something about male comradery, and I am left to observe. That Couple’s male portion folds forward, sending black and red discs scattering from his translucent cheeks. She distorts into a careful mixture of disgust and pity, straightens up and away from him, and tries to keep his untidy forelocks from polluting her soup. They’re meant to be, I am sure. Trendiness has run out of words, so they clasp hands instead, leaning into a competitive game of stare. I place my bet on him while unsuccessfully picturing her in a lacy veil.
Strange and Aloof waltz back, brimming with secret, manly confidences. I long for a sturdy cane to swing at them both, just for a little extra entertainment, and maybe to see if Aloof will break character. Likely not. Strange drives me home, converted back to his secret poet-self without the masculating presence of his friend to hinder him. I join in his sigh for lost love despite my embitterment. Back in bareness and silence, I embrace distraction as it lulls me to sleep.