Hanging out with sensei

Three teenage boys came in from an eight hour shift handing out water at the Okinawa Festival. It had grown drizzly with nightfall, inviting soupy brow-sweat air to crash on the sofa, expecting it to be gone in the morning, only to find its ashtrays overflowing and its fridge empty a full week later. The boys split, one to check his MySpace page from the laptop on the coffee table, and the bigger of the other two splayed across the living room floor to have the littler walk on his jello back. He cracked it with a touchdown jump, the bigger one woofed, and the air was seasoned with laughter and groans that clustered in the ceiling corners of the room. All was goofy and bright. They surfed the cable, stopping at Spike for a dating show that had a bleached young woman with more tattoos than silicone taking off her top in a hottub. An imperative cellphone went off in the calf pocket of the bigger boy's jeans. It was nearing 11, time to go home.