Amos

Eye to eye (3)

There were only so many times I could bug my brother before having to torture Chris for information.
Glen gave those rides home almost everyday from school because of practice and though I was thankful the ass of my brother didn’t have to walk 27 blocks under the sizzling sun, it frazzled my thoughts.
It is not good to imagine certain things about speechless boys. At one point, I managed to get Chris alone in the kitchen, cornering him as his wide eyes grew out his face.
“What?”
“When did Glen move here?”
“Uhhh…” I could tell he wasn’t even trying to think about it.
“Tell me or I’ll poison the hot sauce.”
His eyes shrunk a little but his bottom lip sagged in a pout. “No!”
“I know you know, Chris. Spill.”
“He began school this week, I dunno. He mentioned something about looking for a job…”
My breathing shifted. “How old is he?”
Chris frowned for a second, deep in thought. “He’s older than us, but I don’t know how many years. He’s a junior, I think.”
I stepped away from him, giving enough space to accurately scurry.
Glen wasn’t it. Glen wasn’t 3 years younger so he couldn’t be Amos. I breathed in happily and went on with my chores.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know, it just might as well be paranoia. I kept a wary eye on Glen for weeks after. Listening in to the conversations he interacted in and analyzed his movements and lack of.
I was ashamed; watching him when he chuckled or when his dark eyes drifted off in thought. I scrutinized under the image I originally made of Amos, the boney shoulders that drooped with the teenage innocence of scoliosis, the reddened cheeks marred with youth’s pustules.
I shouldn’t have been so ridiculous. The mere comparison of Glen’s wide shoulders with curvaceous arms of slight muscle makes me change the channel yet again.
Surprising to me was when I spoke to him and he replied with smirks. Confusing beyond belief, you’d imagine.
Like he could even imagine the shit that went through my mind each time I saw him.
I admit that his meaningful glances at me whenever I spoke made my heart ship, but I had caused this reaction on my own. The more I doted on him, the more his features became manly and handsome, his muscles developed and his hands suddenly became a great subject of interest.
Yes, I have a hand fetish. It may sound like some bondage shit, but the size of a man’s hand can be extremely delicious; the way they can cover you all at once as well as cover your neck in a single tight grip.
I didn’t need to add pedophilia to my fondest memories, so I kept myself busy whenever Glen was invited over the house. He was never inspired to converse with me, so he wouldn’t look for me, which I highly appreciated while I hid from him.
I, instead, imagined Shia LaBeouf. His eyes….
I could mop while imagining how we would meet, and through my shyness, he’d be interested in me.
I could do laundry whilst picturing our first kiss, most definitely passionate with pent up desire.
And I could drift into homework, daydreaming about what his hands, eyes and upturned eyebrows would do to me.
Shit…
I changed the channel again, grimacing as the credits for Disturbia appeared. I pressed the ok button to see what was coming up next.
Napoleon Dy-oh hell no. I changed the channel again, listening to the laughter coming from my brother’s room and put a Music Choice channel as high as the retarded remote would give into.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I lasted an hour before knocking out.
This was getting out of hand. Glen’s profile would flicker into my daydreaming at random moments and whatever I was doing would cease.
So I eventually stopped torturing myself and got to know him. You know, to convince myself how easily I’ve been wasting my time.
The next time he came over, I bugged my brother into letting me play Guitar Hero as well and with a reluctant sigh, let me have a go at the second guitar after Chris played.
This gave me time to sit at his bed alongside Glen.
“You guys had practice today?” I asked with feigned curiosity.
“Yep.” He watched the screen intently.
Ok, so yes, I’m an idiot for trying to compete for attention with guys and their video games, but the situation has to be normal as possible.
“So what else do you do on your spare time?”
He took a moment to soak in the information on the screen before his eyes flickered to me. “I work.”
“Oh really? Where?” Now the genuine interest seeped in.
“Umm Monty’s.” He scratched the back of his head, looking away. “Construction working.”
That wasn’t common for teenage boys. I looked down at his boots and for the first time took notice of the whitish stains of rubble on them.
I leaned toward him slightly and twined my fingers. “And that’s what you do with your spare time?”
Instead of only acknowledging me with his eyes, he turned his head this time, curving his eyebrows. “More like an optimistic way of saying I don’t have spare time.” He smirked at me, that insincere smile of his that he so easily flaunts.
I tried to smirk back but the edges of my lips failed as he turned to reimmerse himself back into the game.
How sad. I try to not ponder on it too much, looking to the doorway. I feel guilty about finding out something like that when my intentions had been so evil.
My brother calls out to Glen and I, as both Chris and him hold out their guitars.
I play against Glen, Message in a bottle, and win.
And I feel worse about it because he doesn’t eat shit like I do and play video games. He works.
He does that smirk of his and I take leave, giving a short wave at him and walking away.
I feel like such an idiot.