La Joconde

Maybe I’ll ask her, he says to himself.

The boy sits with his back to a large round Formica table, alone; hands clasped together, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched over, head pointed down.

All around him, others are gathered in bunches, talking, laughing, touching. Some are dancing together off to the left; in the periphery of his vision he can barely make out a few faces chatting at a table against the wall. Straight ahead, but still above his gaze, a boy and girl giggle as they first look away, then into each other’s shining eyes, sharing the sort of intimate moment that only a couple newly in love can.

Fatefully, he lifts his head. She’s standing across the room by the front door, her body bisecting its gleaming push-bar, taller than every boy around her. She’s listening to something a familiar-looking boy is saying, a bemused but inviting smile on her face - a face that is eager to laugh.

The boy immediately lowers his eyes to the floor, the adrenaline already cascading through him. He rocks back, shoulders still hunched, head still pointed down. After a while, his heart, which had fluttered painfully only moments before, begins its descent into a normal rhythm. He nervously cracks his knuckles and wipes his palms on his jeans.

A life flashes before his eyes, all at once, its brilliance leaving a burning impression on the back of eyelids as it fades. He leans forward again, elbows going back onto his knees.