This is about the boy who only ate rice cakes. He told me to excuse the sea of rice cakes in his living room; they’re simply all he eats. He drinks his coffee black. He pulls at his ears when he’s stressed. The left one has tiny missing pieces around its top edge; it gives it a bumpy texture. His mother jokes that it’s from the bowl cut haircuts she used to give him and his brother in the tub.
He’s a maniac with the most beautiful smile. He asked me on a dancefloor on New Year’s eve if he felt different underneath my hands. “You know; mushy. Mushier than last time?” His brown eyes watched me intently to make sure I couldn’t lie.
He cooked me tofu the morning after New Years. He insisted on making it. It tasted odd but I was thankful for the refried beans and corn. I held him afterwards when the food settled in his stomach and the monsters took over his brain.
His red rimmed eyes lost their brown on a drunken night of frost. I walked him home and kept him from face planting several times on the ice. He crossed his arms in his hallway and told me quite pathetically in a tone of determination that he’d never be cured.