He is mostly curled in a cheap desk chair in front of a small, unwatched television. Like a half naked scarecrow, he looks older and sparer in the dancing cold light, one leg stretched out bracing against the lopsided coffee table. Narrow limbs, long, flat muscles and visible ribs might trick the uneducated watcher into thinking him weak. Educated, she knows better. She knows him better than he'd admit. He has that look on his face again—eyes seeing something years ago, or five minutes from now—not watching the late night drivel but thinking something he'll never tell her. As usual, she knows it's pointless asking, but she does anyway.
"Where's your head at?"
Alighting on the arm of a generic armchair, she slips her arms around his shoulders from behind him. He just smiles and leans back into her arms awkwardly because the swivel chair he's in is flimsy and about ten centimetres too far from the arm of the chair she's perched on. Then he surprises her by speaking softly. Her delight at the progress of an answer obscures his words and she curses herself for missing the insight. She kisses his neck, breathing in his scent, puzzling at what he might have said. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back.
"I don't want to go back, but I don't want to stay. It's too hard. Everything's just fucked." he murmurs.
"Life's like that. So what are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
He turns the chair to face her. The lost boy is gone, replaced by the impish half smile she loves to hate. He reaches out and cups her face in his hands, a searching, falsely innocent expression in his eyes. Long fingers, she notes looking downwards, faking coyness, with unusual nail beds, equally long and an exagerrated convex profile. Predictably, he kisses her then, attempting to divert her. She's not fooled but she lets it drop. They're just friends with benefits, nothing more. She's not supposed to be getting under his skin the way she does.
She dissembles, allowing him to lead her to his tiny room. She delights in staying away from the bed for as long as she can, leaning agains the cupboard door, making him wait. She lets him undo his tie from around her neck, stolen from him at the night club earlier in the evening. Laughter as her t-shirt goes to the floor after an altercation with her necklace. Eventually they move to the bed, where she's in control. He wears another distant face now, but she knows full well what this one means.
When morning comes, she watches the muscles in his back until the alarm goes off and he stirs. A sleepy smile is the last she sees of the real him as he pulls himself out of bed and into the shower. She makes no attempt to touch him, last night was last night. Now is now.
He readies himself for work, she gloats from under the covers that she has the day off. She eventually slides out from under the quilt and finds her bag on the floor underneath his boxers. He farewells her from the bathroom door as she unselfconsciously dries herself with his spare towel. This is the first time he's seen her without make up.
She doesn't hurry her leaving, even taking the time to make the bed and hang out the towel before slipping out the door. On the way to the bus she wonders just what she means to him. He's made a habit of one night stands, but they were just that, one night. This is the fourth time he's pretended not to care in the morning. When the bus arrives, she decides he's just lonely and scared. He's just a boy after all.
