They settled on meeting during weekends, at Felix’s house. Neither of them held any sort of religious observances, so Sundays worked as well. The first Saturday, after the initial awkwardness, was the both of them trading war stories, from typical child neglect to plans for the future. As it turned out, Felix wanted to be a novelist, and Thomas, just as he had stated, had no dreams.
“Aren’t you good at something? Everyone’s good at something, even if only a little bit. I’m not that stellar a writer, but I have dreams anyway. Don’t you do stuff? Drawing? Play a musical instrument? Dancing?”
“Not really. I have good grades, I guess. I can memorize stuff.”
“Go on.”
“Like, I remember when I met you, you were wearing a black shirt, and light blue jeans that had a little rip near your left ankle, and white sneakers. The guys who were beating you up was a brown haired kid with a big nose and a pasty black haired guy with a bowl cut with a lot of pimples and a digital watch that was stuck at 3:33, when I looked closer. Someone in the crowd was calling you a faggot. A few elderly people on the other side of the street were watching, and a mother passing by with her toddler pushed him away and offered to take him for ice cream, because he started crying. A limo was driving by at some point, and the windows rolled down a little-”
“Eidetic memory, wow.”
“Eidetic?”
“Photographic memory, Thomas. Do you remember everything like this?”
“Mostly only things I want to remember. When I study for a test I just look at the textbooks and memorize what the words and letters look like in my head.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
“I guess.” Thomas scratched his head, and shrugged. “Mind showing me some of your writing? You have me interested now. Is it on your laptop?”
“Nah, it’s in a notebook.” Felix rummaged under his bed, everything in his room seemingly spotless, and took out a red marble composition book, college ruled.
“I’ll read it to you, if you want.”
“Sure.”
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