Alea Jacta Est

In front of me as I walk are two men. Boys, really I suppose. One of them has flared pants so low and tight it is hard to believe he has a penis. His hair is bleached blonde and gelled crazy in all direction. I can hear his voice rise every now and then but I can’t make out the words as he motions grandly with one hand. The other boy is so average, I would never have noticed him were it not for his companion. He is dressed in jeans, a hooded sweater, a windbreaker, Addidas. He is speaking too quietly for me to hear his voice at all. He leans over, puts his arm around the blonde boy and kisses his neck apparently in response to something the boy said. Then he lets go and they continue to walk, not holding hands or touching, just walking. They go left as I go right and I wonder what it was that the blonde boy said that caused such an upwelling of feeling in his companion. The little prickle of affection that makes you reach out and touch a person.

I sit on a cement bench and watch, listening to murmurings of the clocks about to strike the hour. There is a boy and a girl standing away from the wall of the bifurcating halls as the beginning trickle of students walk past. Both blonde, the boy is tall and fairly handsome, in fashionably cut and colored jeans and flip flops. The girl is dressed in a tight black shirt, a white zippered jacket, a stripped blue scarf, light colored blue jeans, a cloth belt, Nike brand shoes, triangular earrings that jostle and bump her jawbone. It is painful to watch the infatuation in her eyes as she leans forward with her entire body towards the boy. It is so clear in her eyes and posture and smile that she wants him.

And so what if they lay together right now, his arm over hers, his hand nestled between her breasts. It’s a stupid game to play anyway. Played like chess but the winner is determined by the roll of a dice.

And I only play if I know I will win.