preston looked in the mirror. he examined the bags under his eyes, rubbing at them harder than ought to. he ran two fingers over the sharp bump of his nose, from too many fights. he stared at his own hands, his scabbed knuckles and his calloused fingers. they began to shake. he looked at his chest. he thought for a moment about girls. there was a girl in his math class who was gorgeous. she had a sweet face and a nice body and she was funny and cute. he liked her. he did, he really liked her. but he didn't quite like her. he thought about her face and her body and her smile, but the impossibility that was his heart couldn't imagine himself with her, did not want to kiss her face or touch her body or make her smile. every boy wanted her and he wanted to be her. he put on a shirt and looked in his own eyes. blue.
boring, boring blue. in sixth grade he had a friend named owen with gorgeous green eyes. sometimes he thought he wanted to be him. owen's parents were health freaks, who loved yoga and activism and music. preston's parents loved being lawyers and being surgeons and telling preston to stop making so much noise. preston just wanted to make noise.
he looked at his arms.
ninth grade year. a junior varsity wide receiver asked if preston wanted to feel his bicep. preston scoffed and walked away. he really, really wanted to feel that football kid's muscles.
preston assessed himself in the mirror. same dirty blond hair, same dark blue eyes, same too tall, too skinny body. he turned the light out. it was far too late at night for a conversation with himself. sleep itself was troublesome. you can't lie to yourself in your sleep. you can't forget about the pretty boy in your history class. you can't pretend to want someone you don't. he knew this, but preston still went to sleep, and tried to dream himself a respectable job, a loving wife and kids. but preston never got what he wanted.