You know he'll like it. Well, rather, you think he'll like it. You seem to know him less and less these days. You suppose that's to be expected. Occupational hazard. In this case, the occupation being…recklessly flirting with your lifelong best friend? And you guess that's where the metaphor falls apart.
They aren't authentic, like those brilliant ones he gave you lo those many years ago, and that you still wear, but they're in good condition. So it is with care that you tuck them into your pocket and make the daily trek to his house.
He isn't waiting for you today. You didn't really expect it, since you're not coming from school. You slept fitfully last night, and once you woke up, you didn't quite have the motivation to drag your sorry ass out of bed. Eventually your bro did it for you, and it is about one o' clock on Saturday afternoon as you arrive in front of the familiar white house. Your stomach growls in complaint. How could you have forgotten to eat anything before you left? You're not thinking straight these days.
The doorbell chimes a bit too loudly for your ears, which haven't heard so much as a word all day. After a few moments, you hear footsteps pounding loudly down the stairs, and the door swings open. John is still in his pajamas, his hair a mess and glasses missing from his face. You smirk from behind your shades. How cute.
"It's you," he says, not at all pleased. He squints at you. You're not used to seeing him without that smudged glass covering his eyes, and it makes your stomach do an acrobatic fucking pirouette. Off the handle, of course. "I thought maybe you'd given up. Or one week was the plan."
You slip a pair of aviators with deep blue frames from your pocket and slide them onto his bare face. His eyebrows knit together and he yanks them off. You cringe. "Careful," you warn him. "Those are nice ones." He sighs is resignation.
"Look," he articulates bluntly, flipping the sides of the glasses into the down position with his two pointer fingers. "How much longer is this going to go on?"
You jump backwards off the step. "That, my friend, is a secret." Giving him a little playful salute, you turn and stride back to your bike. When you pedal off, he's still in sight, leaning against the doorframe and inspecting the sunglasses with a grimace.