It annoys him that his friend is still pouting for attention as they leave the restaurant. He stands too close for comfort as they hail an Uber to head to a bar. It had been the ladies’ suggestion, and he needs a stiff drink after this fiasco. Even if his friend wasn’t here, the woman his mother picked wasn’t remotely his type. For several reasons. his cheeks hurt from the fake smiles and laughter and he hopes that alcohol will make things better. At the very least, it might make it easier. 

The ride to the bar is filled with loud reggaeton music that the Uber driver wiggles to as she takes them through the lit up city center. he feels his friend staring holes in the back of his head from the back seat and knows that He's dying to collapse into laughter at the music selection. he resists the urge to turn around because then they’ll start doing that thing their mothers describe as unsettling—  blinking, waggling their eyebrows, and other facial movements as a form of communication. At this point it is its own language. Their own language.

“Why did you choose here?” This time it’s His best friend’s tone that sounds short, and He watches with some satisfaction as he pulls at the collar of his shirt. 

He can’t help but watch. Under the sidewalk lamp He can tell he's sweating and swears He can see the droplets sliding from underneath His best friend’s chin, rolling down his neck. They’d finished a wine bottle at the restaurant, and it seems His best friend is a lightweight even with something like wine. It’s a new fact about him, and He files the information away for later. 

“Let’s get going, shall we?” Sarcasm shrouds His words but His best friend doesn’t even chance Him a glance, equilibrium already restored. 

It pisses Him off. 

he can feel His ire as the bouncer holds the door open for them. Their usual hang out is loud this time of night, the lights all but turned off, cigarette and weed smoke floating above the numerous heads crowding together. Tonight there is a live band playing jazz. As they sit down at a small circular table, the saxophone starts its slow windup and he can’t help but glance at his friend. 

It’s His favorite instrument. His love pushed Him to take up lessons during middle school. But, He learned He’s shit at it, and every time they hear those brassy notes, his friend’s nose scrunches up and His eyes water like He’s smelling the rankest rotten cheese, a reminder of his “lack of talent.” 

This time however, He’s smiling down at the woman, His “date.” Before his agitation can grow, he notes that both his friend’s hands are in the pockets of His slacks. he knows they are balled so tightly crescent moons will be imprinted in His skin for minutes afterward. he feels like a cat stealing the cream knowing that he’s the only one to ever know this about his friend.