Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 2 - Part 2

Mikey said things in a way that invoked visions of us spending time together in the future. I considered this while I watched the sun set out my window. Beyond houses, buildings and occasional fields, all of it racing by, I caught flickers of open water and the far-off levee holding it at bay. The next few miles were peppered with conversation borne, still, out of an inscrutable dose of caution and unfamiliarity. How does one coax something from a void? What kind of enigmatic force conjures a friendship between strangers? How fragile those first times together must be, yet with so much depending on them. For one covert second, I swelled with sadness, not just because a continued relationship with this beautifully unchained boy was so improbable, but for the tragedy of all friendships that died in infancy. Then with a symmetric abruptness, I deflated back down to my normal self in time for him to ask, "Do you have your own place?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's pretty small. I don't really need a lot of room, and I keep a few things at my parents. They don't live very far away."

"Same here," he said. "Well, not about my parents, but my apartment. It's just a studio."

"Did your parents move out of Corbin?"

"Actually my parents passed," he said. "It was a few years back."

"Oh," I said. "Wow, my god. I'm so sorry to hear that." I turned slightly away from him, wishing I had sounded less affected.

"It's okay," he said, then seemed to ruminate for a few seconds before adding, "It feels like a very long time ago now."

"Alright," I said. I considered letting the road leading to my apartment pass us by, but then thought better of it. "Sorry, turn right at the intersection."

"No problem," he said.

"Hey, this is a lot faster than the bus. It's still light out."

He smiled. "I'm glad. Do you have any grand plans for the evening?"

"No. In fact," I said, thinking quickly, "would you like to come up? At least I could get you a drink to say thanks."

"I would like that," he said.

I pointed out my building, and soon we left his car at the curb. I apologized for the crumbling state of the wooden stairs leading to my third-floor apartment, and their unsettling tendency to shift underfoot. He showed no sign of aversion.

"It's nice," he said as I led him through the door.

"It's small," I told him, removing my coat, "and it hasn't been updated in a long time."

"You've done a really good job making it nice, though," he said.

"You're very polite," I said, offering to place his coat on the bed with mine. "I should frame some of these posters if I really want to keep them. They look kind of tacky just pasted up on the walls like that."

"In Rainbows," he said, untying a dressy black pair of Vans. "I like that album."

"Yeah, I'll put it on if you want."

"What a fantastic host you are," he said, jerking at his tie and letting it hang loose around his neck.

My apartment was narrow with a cramped entryway near the bed and bathroom. It had wood floors throughout, which I'd partially obscured with two small area rugs. Past the bed lay an unceremonious living area, modular white couch on the left wall, flat television of modest dimensions to the right. I had placed a broad, very low coffee table in the center of the room, or more cosmically, at the center of the whole apartment, and so did it possess its own gravitational pull, as many small items I owned were drawn to its surface. Along the far wall stood a small, complete kitchen. It was rarely put to good use because I wasn't any good at cooking.