The basement bedroom where Ben and Sharon spent most of their time was a collection of ugly trophies. The two had been friends since fourth grade- ever since they had worked on a shared science project. Their ant colony had lasted for three years, trading hands during each vacation, until its size overtook the ten gallon aquarium and their mothers imposed an embargo. They had been given a humane release in Ben's grandmother's old barn with all the solemnity of a military funeral, and Sharon and Ben had moved on to bigger projects.
Though their paths had diverged pretty dramatically since then, their friendship- and the furniture- were as sturdy as ever. Everything in the basement was their salvage. The charcoal basket-weave couch and ottoman, the fake veneered TV stand that they had spray painted over in seventh grade (it was supposed to look tie-dye, but that hadn't worked), the big tube television they had wheeled home on Sharon's skateboard, edge covered in bastardized stickers. "I Voted", "Pac-Man" and "I'VE BEEN KROGERING!" became "PEE", "toe ban," and "ROGER Me", faded into a peeling mosaic around the edge of the dependable television.
Like pirates in a wreck, the two of them had mercilessly sought what they wanted. For Sharon, that was debate club, social status, and a women's cross-country track team that offered no mercy. She was always the seeker of the two, the youngest of four girls with something to prove. She proved it by running with the boys- at least until middle school- pushy, even brutish, to make sure she earned her space. Something had happened around eighth grade, though, and she had cleaned herself up just enough to fit in with the girls whose company she now kept. Jenny, on her track team, whose curly brown hair shone like polished walnut. Hannah, who cooked and spoke French and loved her old polaroid camera. Pretty, respectable girls, who didn't clean gutters, wear stained, threadbare clothes, or ride mountain bikes and four-wheelers in the woods.
Ben was an only child. He had a laid-back attitude and easy smile that sometimes made him seen like a pushover. Okay, he didn't have Sharon's drive- he would admit to that, of course. But he didn't feel like he really needed it. Ben was happy how he was. There wasn't anything he really wanted that he didn't feel like he could get, and there just wasn't anything he really wanted. He was happy to fuck around on the internet, experiment with bad electronic music and photoshopping pictures together into weird collages.
There was time to figure things out, he supposed, especially since the two of them were completing their general requirements at the same local community college. They hadn't discussed what they wanted to do beyond that- after more than ten years of friendship, it was hard for Ben to imagine a world without Sharon in it.
Sharon held a light beer in one hand, one leg cocked askew on the ottoman as she scrolled through her phone, not paying attention to the black and white movie chattering away to itself on the screen. The two of them had been on ladders all day, up to their elbows in grime, cleaning out Ms. Joss' gutters. Sharon worked like a dog for Ben's mother- one of the rare times her tomboyish attitude shone back through. Both of them were exhausted, but they knew his mother wouldn't give them any grief over the beer- she politely ignored such misdeeds now that they were almost 21.
Bottles littered the mismatched side tables- one a scratched, glass 80s minimalist thing, the other bubbled, veneered wood 60s-imitation. Ben's was the wood one. His legs were crossed out in front of him on the ottoman. Nearly halfway through his third beer, he glanced over toward Sharon. Her messy, brownish-blonde hair was half-up, a lock in the front falling down to rest near the edge of her army green tank top,
her loose yellow shorts were stretched over one warm ivory thigh, and Ben's attention caught on the heathered gray fabric up the other, rolled-back leg. He didn't think much about it- on the screen a man in an ugly suit argued with his friends on a streetcorner, and the flashing light flickered over the scalloped hem barely pressing into the curves of her pelvis.
"You looking at my underwear?"
Ben froze. He looked up at Sharon's face, ready to see anger, but instead, she looked smug- mischievous. She set her phone aside.
"Oh," he hesitated. "No, sorry. I wasn't paying attention. I was just staring into space."
"Horseshit," she scoffed. "Fair's fair, Benjamin. Show me yours, since you're already looking!"
"I don't think that's a good idea," he protested.
"Why not?"
"Just because."
"That's not a reason, perv!"
"Because," he fumbled as he explained, "I'm not wearing any."
