Short Stories (bxb)

The Art of Feeling Small Pt. 4: Hansa Yellow

     Another bumped shoulder. "Glad?"

     "That I get the real thing."

    My quiet "oh" didn't make it over the wind. Shaking the chill of the passing gust, I said, louder, "It's a trade. You lose the shades, I lose the mask."

     Ezra couldn't fully smile with his mouth around the straw, but what hid from his lips showed in the crinkling of his eyes. "I'm glad I get to see you."

    I didn't get a chance to respond, and fortunately so, because the coherent part of my brain had apparently taken a leave of absence. Two hands came down on Ezra's shoulders from behind, causing us both to jump, and a feminine voice cooed, "Guess who?"

     A smile bloomed across Ezra's face, water-lily wide. "Oh my god, George Bush?"

    "So close, babe, you're getting better at this."

    "Alexander, this is Kayla," Ezra introduced over the noise of a sloppy kiss being planted on his cheek. Kayla -- the best friend I'd heard so much about -- used her thumb to wipe away the glossy wine-red residue. "Kayla, this is--"

     "Alexander, Alexander, the celebrity himself." She faced me with raised eyebrows and an arch smile that turned smug when Ezra's face went pink. I missed the silent exchange that followed, too busy gaping at her for two reasons.

     1. I had seen her face before. It had been so long ago, but I was sure she was the girl in Ezra's portrait.

     2. She was impossible not to gape at.

     She had been lovely in the photograph, sure, but a picture could never compare to flesh and blood. Big hair, dark skin, pierced septum, deep eyes. Coy smile. I belatedly realized that she was 100% talking to me, and I was 100% staring at her like I'd never seen a girl before, but woah.

     "I'm . . . sorry, what?" 

    "It's nice to meet you," she repeated, and it took me a second to process (because, woah), but I managed to return the sentiment without embarrassing myself. "Well, I won't keep you two--"

     "You can stay," I offered, far too quickly. "If you want, I mean."

     She placed a hand on Ezra's shoulder, some wordless question I couldn't translate. His smile was honest when he said, "We're heading to the studio. Walk with us?"

     As she fell into step, walking next to me to give Appa space, I forcefully recovered from my cottonmouth and managed to make decent conversation. This, at least, I could do -- I spent enough of my time surrounded by near-strangers to know how to make small-talk.

     And she was cool. The patchwork sleeve, film and music double-major, deep voice sort of cool. Her presence was at once calming and magnetic, the type of vibe that had me lowering my own voice for fear of talking too loud. I knew I was acting different, talking slower, thinking over my words more than I normally would to avoid coming across as a stupid fratboy. And I knew Ezra noticed. I was breaking the deal I'd only just made -- he still lacked the shades, but I was freshly masked. I couldn't help it. It was less the desire to impress, more the fear of disappointing.

    It all felt so, so weird. Being around Ezra like this. The absence of his shoulder against mine -- at some point, I had gravitated away from him and toward Kayla, and it was fine, Kayla was fine, but it was weird. The distance, the small-talk, the fact that Ezra was hardly talking at all. This felt a lot more like my world than the wonderfully strange place Ezra brought me to whenever we were together.