Sunlight slanted through the grimy windows of the American diner, painting checkered floors and worn Formica booths in warm stripes. The Fighter hunched at a corner table, hoodie zipped all the way up to his chin, his long brown hair crammed into a messy bun that barely stayed put. A baseball cap pulled low shadowed his face, and his fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on the syrup-sticky table.
He'd been thinking about it since Tuesday. Just out. Just somewhere the hood would be unnecessary, somewhere nobody would recognize the shape of his shoulders. He hadn't said anything because saying it out loud would have made it real and real things could be refused. So he'd sat with it. Carried it around like the extra weight you don't log.
His plate of pancakes arrived, positively drowning in maple syrup (+$4.99), but the fork sat idle beside it.
Raul slid into the booth across from him, his leather jacket creaking softly — the one covered front to back in a chaotic constellation of pins and the fresh patches he'd sewn himself just last night. A star-shaped afro crowned the punk armor, bobbing as he grinned and set his beat-up canvas bag down with a thud. He looked like rebellion wrapped in sunshine.
The Fighter tugged his hood tighter, eyes flicking to the door out of habit.
Raul nodded, unfazed, and flagged down the waitress for two more stacks of pancakes with extra syrup. His grin didn't waver, afro bouncing slightly as he settled in.
The Fighter forked up a bite of pancake, the sweetness grounding him for a moment as syrup dripped from the edge.
He slid an envelope across the table. Inside, an airline ticket: ORD to CDG.
The Fighter looked at it for a moment. He already knew. Raul had looked at him and seen the thing he hadn't said out loud yet — the Tuesday thought, the somewhere-else thought — and had bought the ticket before the conversation even happened. That was either the most irritating thing about Raul or the only reason he was still standing. Probably both.
Steam rose from the fresh pancakes between them. The Fighter picked up the envelope. Turned it over once. Set it down on his side of the table — not back to Raul. His side.