"Yeah, why? You know a place?"

"There's this barbeque joint my dad used to take us to, in St. Lou," he says. "Keep your eyes on the map, lemme see if we can find it."

9 minutes later, you exit, and after a few mysterious turns and wide-firebird parking mishaps, you and Roy walk to The Smokehouse on 9th.

You get the brisket sando, side mac. Roy, whose stature and appetite was always smaller, guns for the exact same thing.

A couple minutes after you've sat n started, Roy, mouth covered in barbeque sauce in only the most charming manner, says:

"Dad and I used to come here on Fridays for dinner. Back when he gave a shit, I mean."

"It's fucking good," you manage through a mouthful of sando.

"Yeah bro, it's rad. Same as ever."

A few minutes pass, and then, you notice something.

"Roy?" you start.

"Mm."

In his blonde mullet, on the side, you see a small streak of sauce. How did it even get there?

"Hold still," you say, and you wet a napkin then reach across the table to wipe it off.

"Dude, what are you-"

"Easy, man, lemme get this."

"Alright, alright," he concedes. You wipe it off.

"Need like eight showers when we get back," you laugh.

He laughs too.

"Thanks, Al."

And you're stunningly aware of a certain feeling. You could kiss him right here, in the middle of the restaurant, but you're going to hold onto that feeling instead. You're going to nurture it, and then after you leave...

When you're back in the car, that's when he kisses you.