The Boys

They are careless with their boy-bodies. One stretches out his boy-legs whenever he sits down and forgets where he has put them. Another has a habit of running into doorframes. This one’s arms swing out when he walks; often, they apologize for accidentally grazing each other’s hands.

All of them are amazed at how small she is. They say things like coxswain, second baseman, running back. One says “I always forget how short you are until the next time I see you.” On her shoes, he adds: “look at them! Tiny Timberlands!”

One night, some of them are going to a vampire-themed party. She offers up an old stick of eyeliner and makes them nervous. They have never done this before. They close their eyes, trusting, tilt their chins upward slightly when she tells them to. She asks them not to twitch if they can help it.

This one’s eyelids are covered in freckles. Another’s eyes are bigger, and deeper-set. One says he thinks he looks better when his are open wide and a fourth one’s close tightly when he laughs. Still another has a stye that has not healed yet. He keeps rubbing at it. She has told him to press lukewarm tea bags against it before bed, but he is afraid of using one that is too hot accidentally and burning himself.

She has just said a particularly formal word in casual conversation with one of them. He repeats it back, softly: cos-mo-po-li-tan.