Sleepovers

Every night, like any other night, is a ritual.

I usually find him focused on his laptop, tending his testosterones with countless basketball game highlights. He watches these things over and over again, as if trying to fathom the science and magic of being able to shoot a Spalding ball in millions of ways. He goes crazy over acrobatic dunks, buzzer beater shots, the works! Then he obsesses with stats and trades as if life depended on it. I’m not sure if one man can buy the whole NBA, but he sure acts like one.

But that is just the beginning.

He then opens his primary tabs; his staples – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram – and from there he gathers links, anything, that trigger curiosity and interest. Each tab is lined in one window, while others are bookmarked for future leisure reading (you’ll never know when good shit stops coming).

After the careful forage springs a bounty of articles, reviews, and photographs, which he digests, slow and thorough, like eating his favorite ramen; he then finishes it with downing the occasional coffee, iced tea, or beer. The focus he summons in scrutinizing these matters is comparable to that of an American spy detonating another North Korean nuclear bomb, eyes transfixed in another upcoming Ben Affleck movie, or a new album by JCole, or a random Time article talking about the benefits of kissing, of course backed with scientific research.

All these things he does in his bed, every inch of the cushion familiar, used, whiffed of his deodorant and bath soap. At times a strand of his hair falls off, but not like how leaves fall in autumn but like how snow falls in winter – because it’s a reminder of something cold and wicked, like imminent baldness.

And then I approach. I sit only on the edge, uncertain if my butt cheeks are welcome to rest on those Simba sheets. I relax momentarily, because you don’t want to perturb a grown man, with eyes of a bobcat, on his night of rest.

Slowly, after a rapid survey of the bed checking for more hair strands, I sheepishly slip my feet in the bed. I pretend to browse my social media accounts that are, to my surprise, still not making me famous, and try getting comfortable. In truth, I’d rather have the Wi-Fi turned off, if only that would turn his attention to my newly shaved legs.

I gain confidence soon enough, and decided to entirely invade his personal space. That New York Times article needs to wait. Inch by inch, I poke him with my toe. He glances and tilts his body a little bit in order to graze my thigh, but went back to official business. That was it? This little man’s chinky eyes resume reflecting another Drake music video, while mine feast on his shirted back.

But a young man’s sensitivity is always at work, and after a few more readings, he sneaks into my side and spoons me. Internet can’t provide body warmth with that I’m sure.

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