clean

three;

I open my eyes in Tim Hortons, leaning on the back of a boy that has his head buried in his arms on the table. His back rises and falls, taking my head over the crests and drops of his breath.

I sit up and the boy stirs, then rubs his eyes. That's when I realize it's Benedict Fisguard, my best friend from kindergarten to middle school.

I forgot you existed.

Shame floods red into my cheeks and plants a thistle in my throat. Not the shame of forgetting him- stuff like that happens (and in all honesty, wasn't it those years I was trying so hard to forget in the first place?). No, it was the shame of what I could remember from last night.

I rub my hands over my face and rub my fingers through my hair where they get caught in the tangles.

"Good morning, sunshine," says Benedict, and his voice has become a lot deeper since the last time I heard it somewhat-sober.

I keep my hands over my face.

"Coffee?"

I nod and he gets up and although I know he'll be right back, I wish he had just stayed there sitting next to me.