What had turned out to be a pretty uneventful day was shaping up to be an equally uneventful night.

Even though it was unseasonably warm for this time of year, I spent the day slumped over on the couch with Rebecca, in her cramped loft apartment, staring at but paying no attention whatsoever to the TV, rising only to retrieve more coffee or for frequent bathroom breaks.

Rebecca had been my closest friend for so long that I forget when and where we actually first met. We did everything together. When she got a job, in high school, at a crappy little movie theater concession stand, just so she would be able to get free popcorn and candy, I applied as well. When she wanted to start a punk band, even though neither of us knew how to play any instruments, I joined up with her. When she left to attend a school that was an hour away from home, I signed up for classes, too. So, it was no surprise that when she dropped out to follow her life’s ambition of being unambitious, well, I was right behind her.

It was starting to get dark now and, after wasting away most of the day, we decided to finally leave the apartment. (However, the thought of actually doing something was not the catalyst for our departure as much as it was the fact that we were out of coffee.) While it was warmer throughout the day, it was cooling down as night grew nearer; I grabbed my coat and she put on an extra shirt, but chose to leave her jacket behind because, she reasoned, “we weren’t going to be out that long anyway.”

We exchanged in silent conversation as we ambled to the café on the corner, bored slightly in our nightly ritual. Our hushed peaceful stroll, however, was cut short after a car full of teenagers from one of the local high schools drove past, slowing down just enough to pelt us with water balloons. It was new and exciting and unexpected and lasted all of twenty seconds before the freshness of the experience wore off, and we realized that we were now just wet and cold.

After standing in silent shock for multiple seconds, Rebecca let out a high-pitched screech followed by and angry rant.

“Fuck! Fuck you! Come back here, you fucking fuck-ass fuckers! Fuck!” she called after our long-gone aggressors, with an eloquence usually reserved for angry rappers.

Calm down, I said, not so much for her own well being but because passers-by were beginning to stare.

“I can’t believe it! Fucking kids these days! We never did anything like that when we were in high school!”

No, I said. You just sat on Missy Peterson’s head and made her repeat “Just because her family has money doesn’t mean that they weren’t still white trash.” over and over.

“Well, they were.” Was her only defense.

“C’mon,” she continued, pulling on my arm. “I’m cold and need coffee now more than ever to warm me back up.” We resumed our journey, in desperate search of shelter and a fresh warm brew.

Unfortunately, we found neither.

Upon finally arriving at the coffee shop, a walk that on most nights eats up about ten minutes, tonight taking somewhere around twenty-five, we discovered it closed. A sign on the door reminded us that, on Sundays, they closed at 9:00 PM and, after checking our watches, it was in fact after nine.

Rebecca let loose a frustrated scream and I rubbed her back, trying to soothe her.

It’s okay. We’ll just go back to your place and I’ll make us some tea. It will warm us up and calm us down.

“Tea’s for bitches,” she muttered, disgruntled.

Nevertheless, we should head back.

Rebecca uttered a few fake sobs, staring longingly through the large decorative windows at the glorious coffee makes unfulfilling their duties, before finally turning around, head down and, after wrapping my arm around herself, walked next to me back towards her apartment.

“I just wanted some French Roast,” she whimpered.

I know, sweetie. I know.

In a much shorter time than it took us to originally get to the café, we made it back to the apartment. Rebecca rummaged through her purse and then her pockets trying to find her keys, but failed both times. It was becoming clearer and clearer that we never should have left the apartment.

“Shit!” She cursed. “I think I left them in my coat pocket. Dammit!”

It occurred to us that we might be able to shimmy open the bedroom window from her fire escape, but once again we would be wrong.

Giving up temporarily, I sat down, my legs dangling through the bars of the balcony railing. Rebecca dug out her cell phone and called her landlord, who told her that he would be down within the hour to unlock the door.

Within a minute or two or hanging up with her landlord, she sat down next to me. Again she fumbled through her purse, ultimately pulling out and lighting up a cigarette; more so for heat, I wagered, than habit. She exhaled, shivering slightly, so I took off my jacket, dry now but probably not too warm yet, and draped it over her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she said, taking another drag.

We talked little, as we waited. I hugged her close, trying to massage some warmth back into her arms. I tightened my embrace slightly and then loosened again. She giggled softly, then laid her head on my shoulder for a moment before picking it back up again and lightly pressing her lips against mine.

What was that? I asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just felt right.”

Did it? I asked, wondering if she was merely drunk from lack of caffeine.

“Yeah, it did.”

Right, I said, gently placing a kiss on the area between her lips and her cheek.

“Listen, I just wanted you to know,” she began.

But in the end, her landlord arrived just in time to unlock the door and interrupt what seemed like a pivotal turning point in our friendship. Rebecca jumped up and raced down the fire escape stairs to greet him, never finishing her thought. They exchanged a few pleasantries and I could overhear them laugh at the situation.

I remained on the balcony for a few extra minutes, before heading down myself, thinking about how both nothing and everything had changed.

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