We met during the night shift at that greasy diner where Uncle Jo would pay students below minimum wage to work summers. That place drew people in like moths to a lamp, a beacon whose flickering “OPEN” sign meant deflated burgers, food service sanitation violations and pleasant atmosphere. Everything was painted in warm colors, blurring together like a perspiring dream as I yawned through the last few orders. You worked the cash register next to me, too close, and radiating yellow heat that was somehow comforting. I told you I liked your jeans and you briskly said they were Salvation Army couture. I blinked at your unashamed arrogance and realized that it wasn’t the first time I’d met you. I remembered you from school because you had hyper-extended knees and sometimes spoke with a British accent if you felt like it.

I told you I was tired. Tired of the grime that hung limply in the air, tired of the monotonous hot nights and tired of the customers who expected five-star cuisine from a burger shack. There was something deliciously satisfying about seeing a person’s face fall when I placed the chipped plate of soggy, cholesterol dripping food down in front of them. You said sleep was an unnecessary waste of time and a common misconception. According to Leonardo Da Vinci, we only need twenty minutes of sleep an hour. I believed you, tracing the pink veins in the whites of your eyes and the purple bruises shaped like crescent moons under them. You never wanted to miss anything.

I gave you a ride home because you had skipped a grade in elementary school and couldn’t get your license for five more months. There was a pause before you got out of the car. The night air was reserved but silently teaming with raw anticipation. I felt the sudden responsibility to do everything in my power to hold the fragile strings of the moment together. It clenched roughly in my chest, turning the knuckles on my steering wheel pale white. You muttered something about watching a documentary inside and I nodded in agreement.

We padded through your kitchen tentatively, like guilty children. The light of the refrigerator door illuminated the hollows of your cheeks as you aimlessly searched for something you weren’t going to find. A collage of a week’s worth of spilled food was congealed on the floor, sticking like barnacles to the bottom filter of the refrigerator. The whole house was like that. The swimming pool’s tiled floor was softened with moss, the indoor fountain was cracking like it was left out to dry, the wooden floor turned my bare feet black. Your house was rotting from the inside.

I wondered if you were the same way and the thought scared me out the back door. You caught me as I was halfway across the unkempt backyard, with an intense black eyed stare that twisted my throat with guilt. But you seemed to understand. You were different, and that scared me because you were the closest thing to the truth.