Matthew Burgos

I’m sitting at the dinner table. There’s a Christmas tree to my left and my friend to my right. I have two people in front of me, both of them have a familiar relationship to the birthday celebrant. Throughout the night, the table seats nine people sharing stories and laughter, but my eyes often dart to the two people across from me.

The one on the left, who I’ve named A, has chin-length, voluminous, and wavy hair, while the one on the right, who I’ve named B, has short, straight hair, with parts of its ironed strands almost touching his right eyebrow. A’s body tilts to B’s direction for most of the night. He only turns to his plate when he needs to slice and fork his meal and push it in his mouth. B sits like he’s in a proper dinner. He mostly talks to his friends on his left, occasionally turning his head to A to address him.

But there’s a natural cadence to the way their bodies and conversations work. The way A softens his postures, sags his shoulders, and gravitates towards B is a sight to see. B is less likely to follow A’s rhythm because there’s a sense of strictness or formality to his nature. At times, the jester in him comes out with a dig or comment, but he pulls it back in the moment it dips its toes out for a bit. Yet they complement each other, fill each other’s gaps. They’re free-spirited, and I feel privileged to watch it unfold during the night. I find myself drowning out the chatter of the friends in the room for a peek into their casualness. They look like they know each other enough to drop inside jokes no one else, not even their friends, knows about.

When A says something that invokes memories of their past, it’s not his friends that cajole and join in, but only B, who swivels to affirm what he says and chimes in with a piece of what he recalls. They continue for a while, then they return to their socializing selves, as if they’ve already shut the door into their private room. The food tastes great, courtesy of A, and at one point before he serves it, B hands over his plate to him for a serving. A thoroughly slices him a thick piece of roasted beef and plants it on his plate. They briefly look each other in the eye, then they carry on with the conversation.

The night ends with me leaving to catch the train, but not before I see the two of them jiving as they sing a song at the karaoke. The rest of the group says goodbye to me, and I try to catch their attention to tell them I’m leaving, but they’re jumping as they sing Let It Go in whatever key they can tune their singing. Right before I step out of the door and shut it, they turn around and wave their hands without mouthing or saying goodbye. But whatever they have, even unknown to A’s girlfriend, who is celebrating her birthday that night and sitting at the head of the dinner table far from him, is the kind of lightheartedness I may long for.

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