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There’s something strange about the boys in the corner booth.
Boys is perhaps a little generous—the older one looks to be in his mid-twenties, while the younger is college-aged.
They had stumbled into the 24-hour diner you worked at, looking worn ragged and tense, and set claim to the booth farthest from the door.
Which just happened to be your section (goddamnit, Peg). You wait for them to get settled, which involves them sitting down like they had just run a mile. The older one limps, and keeps his arm incredibly still. You’ve seen enough fights to know what the aftermath of one looks like. It was bad enough to take out an arm and a leg. You’re getting a little nervous. The younger tucks his mile-long legs against the older’s much shorter ones.
You count out two menus and a dessert page and walk over. As you approach, the older one’s eyes snap up, before relaxing again against the booth as he registers who you are. Were these boys on the run? You desperately try to remember if you’ve heard anything on the news, but the only thing you can conjure up is the weird series of suicides.
“Welcome to Dave’s!” You aim for pleasant and must hit the mark for the younger man looks up at you with soft, encouraging eyes. Oh, these kids are alright. You launch into your spiel about the specials as you pass the cleaner-sticky laminated menus to them. As you turn away, orders written down (a black coffee and a water), the younger’s face falls back into a mask of somber irritation, eyes hard, as he turns back to the older man.
You shiver as you walk back to the kitchen, dread crawling up your spine. A kind face to settle someone, as removable as a hat. A neat trick. A damn scary one, but neat.
The younger had his back to the door, which might not have meant anything if it weren’t for the piercing gaze of the older. His eyes snap to the door with a cold, analytical look any time someone comes in—no matter his genial laugh and soft eyes the millisecond before. The younger takes no notice, as if he’s used to this odd display, or as if he's unaware.
They strike you, as you walk back to the table, as some weird single organism. They’re not speaking, but the way they casually touch each other, wrists bumping on the tabletop as they reach for napkins or straws, legs tucked against each other, eyes lingering oddly on each other’s faces. There’s something strangely familiar about them, but you can’t place it.
They smile weakly at you as you set down their drinks, and you take their orders. The older man has the relaxed confidence of the cat who had already eaten the canary and had his sights on the next one. He’s a little roguish, but there is falsity to the way he’s taking up space—as if he doesn’t want it, but has no other choice. Every word from his mouth is a drawl.
The younger one never takes his eyes off of him.
Then, it’s his turn. The odd too-genuine smile is back, but this time you’re wise to it. You nod along, before taking their menus back and going back to ring it in. They ordered enough food to feed them twice over—two orders of waffles, a cheeseburger, a salad (the older one pinned the younger one with a glare), two orders of hash browns, a bowl of grits, and three orders of bacon.
You take the order to the back, where Sal gives you a grunt. You occupy your time with other customers then, but can’t help glancing back at the two boys in the corner.
As someone passes their table to go to the bathroom in the back, the older one tracks their movements with a keen look in his eye.
You know what they remind you of now: your neighbor has two dogs chained up in his backyard. They always look hungry, roving, snapping at the rustle of leaves, eyes too smart and teeth too sharp for you to ever get too close.
As the door bangs open, a group of truckers coming in after a long-haul, the younger one sits up straighter, pressing his shoulders back to make himself taller, almost to block their view of the older one. The older one in turn twitches just a bit, hand flexing as if caught in the reflex of doing something.
You’re reminded, absurdly, of a picture in your biology class way back in high school. A wolf had pressed itself to the front of another, head pressed up against the wolf’s chin to block its throat as another wolf approached. It struck you as strange then—Why would the wolf protect the other’s throat with it’s own? Surely it knows that he’s the next one to fall now?—and it strikes you as strange here, eerie.
After you give them the food, the boys eat like they’ve never seen food before, and someone’s going to come take it away again. It’s not messy (and boy, have you seen messy), but ruthlessly efficient—not a bite wasted.
It makes you hurt, a little. You’ve seen that kind of hunger before, but nowhere good. It comes ingrained, from years of not enough to go around, with the uncertainty of a next meal. You look away.
The night progresses much as usual, with your regulars coming and leaving, orders taken and entered, meager tips left mostly in coins. You’re grateful for whatever they can spare—you know this crowd doesn’t have much.
As you circle back to the boys’ table, the younger one gets your attention.
“Could we get a slice of pie?” He asks, and very carefully doesn’t look at the older one as he pins with him a stare. You look between them.
“Just one?”
The younger’s one mouth twitches. “Yeah, just the one. You got apple?”
“It’s your lucky day,” You smile, writing it on the pad.
The older one buries a humorless laugh in his hand and they pin each other with a knowing look.
Feeling like a bit of an intruder, you go to the glass display case. You come back to the table, and feel a flush of embarrassment as you notice the tangle of limbs under the tabletop. The younger’s limbs are so long that he’s got one hooked around the older’s calf just to fit it in the tight space. It’s an innocuous hold, but the way they’re looking at each other—again—feels much too intimate for it to be casual.
You give them two forks, which they weren’t expecting by the way the younger reaches for one of his own. The younger looks up at you with a piercing gaze that makes you shiver. Yikes. You can’t decode the look in his eye—gratitude? annoyance? wariness?—so you don’t try.
The last time they call you over, the older asks for another cup of coffee.
“We’ve got to get to Mount Pleasant tonight,” he says by explanation. “I can’t count on this one to carry his own weight.”
“Tonight?” You repeat incredulously. “Hon, that’s over eight hours of driving. Try for Marlin, at least.”
The two blink at you for a second. The younger one smiles. “Thanks. I’ll try to talk him into it.”
You wonder briefly who these boys are to each other. They seem too close to be acquaintances, and too familiar with meaning-laden touch to be team drivers. Really close friends? Lovers? You shake your head, clearing it of the thought. None of your business.
They pay for the food with a credit card (Morton Grayfield? What a strange name.) but leave a tip on the table for you in cash. Your eyes widen as you take it over to the register—it’s more than you usually made in an entire night during a graveyard shift. You turn around to protest, but the boys are gone, door at the front swinging shut.
As if they were never there at all.