Soft Boys
October 15, 2011 in Wordsmoker Short Fiction
I ripped the page out of the SPIN magazine and put it on my wall. I was sixteen and the photo made me want to stare at it. The man in the photo was lying on an Oriental rug and gazing into the camera. He wore a heathered T-shirt and one of his arms was hooked beneath the back of his head. The sleeve rode up and you could see a hint of hair. His face was kind and rumpled, slightly melancholy, warm like a just shed shirt. He was not pretty. He was soft.
*
I remember waiting for you on the veranda. I could hear the motorcycle gangs revving their way through the night somewhere, distant and somehow comforting. We were going to catch the last train into Tokyo. It meant we’d be out all night. There was something about taking the last train away from home instead of toward it that lent the night a sense of danger. Though all we were going to do was hang out with a bunch of friends at clubs until the trains started up again at six. I was playing at smoking then, with a pack of Death cigarettes I bought at the import shop next to the language academy. I liked to wait for you while smoking them. It gave the night a flavor, a sense of distant danger. I knew you wouldn’t be too long. I remember my fingers shaking slightly as I tapped ash over the railing into the dark.
