saraannang
The first night. I read him a story, I make sure it's a happy one. I imitate the characters and he laughs. When the story is over he lets himself fall onto his pillow and closes his eyes, and I pull the covers up to his chin. I stand up, and just before I turn off his bedside lamp, he looks at me, his eyes catching the light. "When is she coming back?" he asks, and I think of how I can answer the question satisfactorily, without lying, and without saying, "You believe she's still alive?"
We only really got to know each other at camp. Before, she was the girl who seemed to know and talk to everyone else, while I imagine I was the girl who sat in the corner, a book her only friend. But at camp where there was no space in my life nor my bag for a book, and all the activities were pair or group work, we were always in the same group. And gradually, our friendship aligned itself to the definition of "best friends."
But she had another friend who, I guessed, used to be her best friend, and in every round of pair work when she was left out, she would smile at my new friend, and then at me. But it was more of a sneer, and I knew we were not friends.
I share a carriage with a middle-aged man, who dozes off the moment he sits down, and a young woman, who reads books and eats pastries, and licks her icing-coated fingers delicately. Two thirds along the way there are wild boars, the biggest ones half as tall as me. They swarm the train, blocking our way. One pokes its head through our window, and the woman takes out a pistol and shoots the boar. Then she turns around and points it at the man.
He was stiff against me, unbearably so. "Melt into me," I willed silently, but he drew away. "Goodnight," he said, smiling at me, and I wished him goodnight, and he left, and I went upstairs, still with only a friend, just a friend.