When you're not home much people don't call, so when the phone rang at home you never thought it was for you. That afternoon though, when it rang, somehow you knew it was them calling for you. All they said before hanging up was "Come over." Their voice sounded so far away it felt like you hadn't seen them in months.
Hopping on your bike you raced down the snaking path that connected your neighborhoods like it mattered; muscles burning and skin white one the knuckles. They were waiting for you at the end perched like a bird on an upturned trashcan. They flew into your arms, not because something was the matter, but because that embrace was home. They had lifted some beer from an older brother. The brew was shit but it tasted great the way shitty beer does before you know any better.
The two of you drank fast and it was that speedy buzz that feels like a dream of caffeine. They climbed up on the back pegs of your bike and together you flew down strange streets. Laughing and screaming through the black night their voice, golden sweet like beeswax, was the only thing that felt real. You felt alive with them, so it says something that you felt most alive that night; Like how some nights are mythic when you look back? That night was mythic while you tore ass through it.
That night was the first time you said "I love you" to each other, to anyone.
This night was the first time you've said their name out loud in more than a decade, and it felt like I 'love you', felt like the gold of their voice tearing through the remaining putrescence of the all wrong old you; reminding you of how the kid you were that night is a living signpost to the person you're meant to be.
Just two more days, and you'll be home.
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