Roger nervously ran his fingers through his hair, as he sat impatiently on a bench inside of Mesa's Greyhound station.

"Fuck," he groaned, glancing at his wrist watch. 5:30pm. Wulf's bus from Tucson had yet to arrive, but he waited eagerly, anxious to reunite with his friend after what had seemed like a lifetime.

Wulf had left Arizona for nine months. He had packed up and run away with his girlfriend at the time - a sentiment that had left Roger with a bitter jealousy he didn't quite understand. He had written off his distaste for the girl as resentment for tearing him away from one of his only true friends, but now, as his stomach filled with butterflies at the idea of seeing Wulf's face, the thought crossed his mind that there may be something more than friendly-admiration lying deep inside his wounded heart.

The thought was fleeting, though potent. He refused to linger on the idea of their friendship being anything more than platonic. He wouldn't allow his mind to entertain the thought of kissing the lips that so resembled the album-art of one of his favorite Ceremony releases, Zoo. He dared not to let his daydreams wander into the realm of romance, where their hands intertwined under sheets as they lay side-by-side, swapping sickeningly sweet kisses for hours on end.

A faint, but growing noise of a Greyhound engine approaching the station drew Roger back to reality. He ran his hand through his hair again, a tell-tale mannerism expressing how truly flustered these emotions were making him. He shook off the romantic fantasies and stood up, repressing the slight nervous tremble that had reached his hands as he walked toward the door where at any second, Wulf would arrive.