It's like this every time he visits, my friend's older brother.
He's wearing a black leather jacket over a dressy red shirt, it's nice. It's really nice.
We spend most of the show hovering around one another, always returning to a sort of equilibrium. He sits down next to me, our thighs pressing together and he draws on my hand with my tiny sharpie. One of us leaves and returns, and by the time the lights are on and the show is over I'm cuddling against his chest, I can hear his voice reverbating through his ribcage. It rises and falls with his breath. He makes a movement, and I sit up, thinking he is uncomfortable, but he just takes off his jacket and wraps his arm around me, pulling me close.
My hair smells like him and cigarettes, and I miss him, and it's so wrong. He's twenty. He's my friend's older brother. He doesn't even live here.
He was so warm.