They sit in silence, the shadows of the streetlights crossing their faces. From a distance, they are nothing but orange dots: fireflies, slightly swaying, slightly flaming. Rows of houses, one like the other, the other like the next. White, sky blue, maybe a pale pink, never bright, never lively, porches of chipped paint, rocking chairs and abandoned stuffed animals with buttons hanging down their once loved faces. They don’t know who they are.
They sit in silence, boys with hollowed souls. They have the same memories, more or less the same souls. They have identities that are hidden behind the crossroads, the shadows. They know what their lives will become, just like their fathers’ and their future suns.
In the afternoons they practice in garage bands. Their hair covers their eyes as they bend forward fingering the frets. In the evenings they walk around hiding behind hoods, their hands in their pockets, cigarettes in their mouths, earphones in their ears and no light in their eyes. Girls in skirts on their way to school with lip-glosses and magazines, hairclips in their hair. All the snow, all the shoveling. The girl next door in the diner getting tips for restraint. For gentle caresses on naked thighs. They have simple lives, or so it seems. They spend their lives wanting to follow their dreams. The blond waitress, the truck driver’s hand on her waist, the awkward smile, the awkward grin. She needs the money, its either this or stripping. The boy sits by the window, warming his hands on a coffee he bought with change. He knows he can’t be a rock star, he won’t make it to fame.