He lays stretched out on his back, taking up the full length of the couch for an

afternoon nap.  His baggy shorts are faded green with big pockets on the sides like old army fatigues.  The fabric is soft and worn, fraying on the edges.  The shorts are riding up, bunched around his thighs.  His tank top was white once.  Now it’s gray, the color of dirty sidewalk.  His hands, russet from being outside this summer, are folded over his chest.  The sun also has lightened the brown hair on his arms, making it glisten gold in the light and disappear into the darkened skin in the shade.

    Sleep has relaxed his face, hinting at the boy he once was, before life gave him lines across his forehead, crinkles around his eyes, creases that were once just dimples.  His mouth hangs loose.  He’s not quite snoring.
    His hand jerks to his face, wiping away the saliva collecting in the corner of his mouth just before it turns to drool.  His eyes crack open just enough to look at me.  “What time is it?” his voice cracks, his eyes closing again.
    “Five thirty,” I say.
    He shifts to his side, folding the pillow under his head, nestling back into the crease of the couch.  His knees pull up towards his hips, his feet rest on top of one another, slowly rubbing back and forth.
    “I don’t think I’m going to make it to the gym,” he mumbles, his eyes still closed, lips smacking together.
    I don’t say anything.  In moments, his breathing evens out, a raspy exhale following each raspy inhale.  His belly rising and falling rhythmically.  A hint of a smile on his face.