The Night Call

The flashing lights of the 711 were casting their yellowish hues on the sidewalk in front of its entrance, not reaching high enough to touch the dusty orange, green and red sign above. But, although unwillingly, they did manage to caress Peter’s back, who was sitting on a low brickwork a couple of feet away. Just like the clerk inside the shop he was scrolling through the games on his phone, opening and closing them with his phone muted, not attempting to play any of them. This search for distraction was going on for a quarter at least, and one empty can of beer was laying on the ground beneath him while the new one, still covered in melted drops of ice, was standing on his side.

It was late. Far too late for the traffic to cover the unsettling buzz of the AC’s ventilator. Just a single car left the wide parking lot behind. The echo of the steps reached the front, then a slapping sound of the door closing and, seconds later, the cry of the engine. Peter didn’t turn around to check, leaving the driver unknown in their late journey, moving in through the small oaks that delimitated its perimeter. His eyes were stuck on the bright screen and he kept to it, not looking up for any reason.

“I don’t think she’s gonna pick up.”

“Just try again.”

But he was checking on James with the corner of his eye. Time after time the guy would click on the green sign of the phone, bringing the device to his ear, just to lower it back again and finish the call. All this just to try again, and again, and again. He was standing there, looking straightforward towards the laundromats, and the only thing moving was his right arm, up and down, and then again. His black leather jacket was creaking at his every move, following the rhythmic sound of the AC.

The rest of the crew disbanded. Roy left first. Then Monica came up with an excuse and walked away in her dangerously high heels soon after. Just like Amber and Scott. Then Matt stayed a bit longer, fixing his beanie with a nervous tick, but he as well ran away shouting that he was going to lose his last bus. So it was just the two of them, arm to arm, in front of the market.

James left his arm slide down and sighed.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

Peter didn’t reply and kept on watching his phone.

“What if she says that I can’t go back?” James insisted.

“Then you can crash at my place.”

They’ve been friends for a while. They’ve met when they were ten and they were waiting for the bus at the stop. James had a gameboy to pass the time and Peter didn’t so he watched secretly over the other’s shoulder until he got caught. James scolded him that it’s inappropriate to creep at someone from behind and then he lend him the game. They grew up and they shared almost every experience since then. Years and years, arm in arm, just like that night. They had their fights, they’d split up and then they’d find each other again. Every single time one of them would come back and apologise, hanging out at Bertie’s bar or in front of the 711, gulping down the cheap bear or watered coffees.

“I’m sorry,” James muttered and raised his arm again.

His open jacket shifted and uncovered the side of his white t-shirt. A cheap t-shirt, just like all the rest of his outfit. The outfit that Peter helped him to pick at the nearby Walmart and which he stashed in his gym bag. Wrinkled and plain. The same condition in which probably was the outfit he changed from.

“Don’t say that.”

Peter looked down for the black Nike’s bag, with a piece of flowery pattern stuck in the zipper. It’s been since that morning that he was walking around, with the material peaking out from the inside, waiting for James to come back. He didn’t fix it straight away. It was just a cloth at that point. A white dress with a flowery pattern, stacked inside a sweaty gym bag. The dress and the ballerinas and the necklace Peter gifted him for his birthday a couple of years ago.

“She said she’ll contact me,” James said.

Peter looked at him, noticing on his nape the silver chain that he gave him a couple of weeks ago.

“She will,” he turned back to fidget with his phone, “at some point she will.”

The light behind them turned off, leaving the space to the lamppost on the other side of the street and the shades of the moon from behind. Peter grabbed the half-full can of beer and handed it to his friend, but James didn’t flinch, so he just moved it to the side. Then he brushed his hand against his jeans, drying it up from the moisture.

They stayed there, listening to the guy from the shop close the door and walk away.

Then James unlocked his phone, pressed the green button and raised his arm again.