At Paul’s birthday party a few months ago-both me and my best friend are eighteen -Gunner came swimming with us in the backyard and I almost hyperventilated. Really, there will never be enough time to absorb his big, bulky body. He doesn’t stop walking on his way to the kitchen, so I only get a few seconds to soak him in. He passes by the opening of the den and glances in briefly, smirking when he spies me collapsed on the Twister mat beside his laughing son. Outwardly, I try not to show a reaction, but on the inside I’m rattling like a rickety wooden roller coaster and my stomach has been left at the top of the steep drop. I’m getting ready to disrupt his balance by bumping him with my hip when the front door of the house opens and closes briskly. “List it, dude!” Paul yells at the television-which he is watching upside down through his legs. Three of our other friends are sprawled out on the couch, cheering us on, one of them absently flipping through the television until finally landing on Love It or List It. Since I met Paul in seventh grade, his house has been my second home. We’re in his den playing Twister on Friday night, as we’ve done so many times growing up. I stretch my right leg out and hook it around my best friend, Paul, stamping it down on the red spot, giggling when my arms start shaking from holding myself in place too long.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |