The Quarterback's Roommate
At six-three, I stood out against the open shoreline, but tonight I wanted the quiet.
A little further down the beach, another figure stood watching the same sunset. Slimmer build, messy hair tousled by the sea breeze, silver nail polish catching the last rays of light on his fingers. He was noticeably shorter than me, wearing a simple white linen shirt that fluttered in the wind and rolled-up shorts. There was something peaceful yet quietly chaotic about the way he stood there, arms wrapped loosely around himself, lost in thought.
I walked closer, the sand shifting under my feet.