For the first fifteen minutes after Noah left to meet with the other club officers, I sat quietly and focused on the weave pattern in the thermal blanket spread over his bed. For the second fifteen minutes, I traced my finger over the curves of every pin up model gracing his walls. His commitment to diversity is impressive. His appreciation for a phenomenal rack, unquestionable. Now I am aggressively folding laundry—anything to keep my hands busy. I assume the clothes are clean. Dark t-shirts, jeans, bandanas and soft flannels. The earthy scent of him lingers in the laundry just beneath the mountain spring blast of detergent freshness. I only press my face into it twice. Okay, three times. I only wonder who washes it for him once. I pull the t-shirt away from my face and fold it again. There’s a gentle rap on the door and then it creaks open. A young guy with barely more than a milk mustache on his upper lip pokes his head inside Noah’s room. If we were back at the diner I might joke with him about his baby face, ask him if he wanted crayons while he waited for his eggs and bacon.
