Silver / clay

⊱ 7 ⊰

Caleb pulled the long black pants up to his waist. A white collared shirt barely hung to his frame, splayed open at the front, almost falling from the shoulders with every movement. He stepped over a soiled cardigan as a flash of light joined him in the lounge, scrounging for a taste of left-over scraps from the night before. A second, much slower animal, moped in languid steps, yawning down to the cardigan between Caleb's feet.

He compared his uniform to their loose, haphazard concoction of attire, and remembered the gaping optimism he'd felt back then. There were no constraints on the future. The world would be created in their image. It wasn't that long ago but it felt it, and even now the naivety stung.

He finished doing the buttons of his shirt, which had stains of its own -- when you live with uni students, some of their habits rub off -- and avoided the soft nudges of a bleary-eyed scavenger. The lounge had become a de facto changing area, with his own room too tiny for much more than sleeping. He hadn't shifted into one of the larger bedrooms in the years since moving in, despite a number of opportunities, with most of his roommates lasting a year before moving on to something better.

The two near him now made their way out of the door, one with long, languid strides, the other a hurried scamper, each heading for the same bus, the same route he once followed.

"Look at the way that fucker runs!" said Kamil, by Caleb's side. "You'd think he'd be better at it since they grow up getting chased by tanks."

A continuation of the joke conjured within Caleb's mind, about Chinese people believing whatever they're told by their government, but he kept it from Kamil whose attitude was suddenly all so tiring. His friend's masculinity -- or what he falsely attributed to masculinity -- now seemed to consist entirely of cheap attacks and dumb jokes, and he'd gone along with it all. The prevailing ethos of those nearby really did rub off, even more profoundly than a stained shirt.

Kamil flailed his arms in the air, mocking an attack from behind. His cackles were met with a stone-faced Caleb.

"That's enough," said Caleb, aware that he was treading a dangerous path. He'd usually acquiesce to Kamil's dominance, freely hand over the reins, but their dynamic would change if he started standing up for the rights of others.

"Enough what?" said Kamil. "He's just a dumb gook."

Only you can choose your future. The words echoed in his mind, still in her sweet lilting voice.

"You don't have to say that," said Caleb.

"I'm sure the little snowflake will get over it," said Kamil. "Who gives a shit? He's gone, anyway. Kinda like you've been, lately. What's the deal with that chick?"

"Chick?" said Caleb, feeling a tension begin to simmer.

"Are you actually going out or just fucking?" said Kamil, in a tone that brooked no evasion.

"No," said Caleb.

"Not fucking?" said Kamil. "Don't be some obsessive loser. Make sure you're in control." He punched Caleb's shoulder. "And don't let her pussy-whip you into not seeing who you want."

"I won't," said Caleb. And he meant it.

"It's how they try to wrap you around their finger."

That idea swelled within Caleb in a symphony of grace. Her little finger alone, able to control his destiny, sent a shiver down his spine.

"But bros before hoes, am I right?" said Kamil.

It went against his normal impulses, but Caleb channelled his inner Mistress Eboni and got into Kamil's face, staring him down, accidentally assimilating a clearer view of the bruise around his eye. It stood for a trauma his friend had known all his life, and dissipated some of the rage building inside Caleb.

"It's an expression, fuck-knuckle," said Kamil, seriously, without stepping down.

Caleb turned away, doing up his collar and snatching at his wallet.

"Have fun at work," said Kamil, regurgitating spite.

Before stepping out the door Caleb stopped, was about to stop, eager to wish Kamil fun falling victim to his cousin's fists again, but he held it back, knowing it would undermine his fresh outlook and would place himself, once more, firmly in the mire.

So he left the house, Kamil's parting shot still ringing in his head, a far more effective attack than a punch to the face. He dreaded the banal grind of an afternoon's worth of dishes, the perpetual cycle of a life unfulfilled.