The 1936 Olympic Diving Competition

How you doin’?
Good. You?
Not bad. Not bad at all.
What’s your name again?
Pete.
Pete. Right.
He yawns from the bottom of his gut.
I’m sorry. I’m just fighting with my Ipod here.
No problem.
He hums while moving his hands as if an accordion were between them, with his Ipod earphones hanging like a web of bright white from his fingers. His hair falls down to the small of his back.
I’m sorry.
Statistically, women say I’m sorry more than men.
Well, they say you should sleep through your pregnancy since you won’t be sleepin’ after the kid’s been born.
I know. I missed the boat on that one.
His face is puffy with paleness. Sunken in circles of pink skin, his eyes do not blink. He has a comb in the back left pocket of his baggy blue jeans. A knife clips in the front right. We begin staring at one another until his friend walks between us and I look away before our eyes meet again. He wears a Dr. Seuss hat and sucks on a juice box.
I don’t even know how my grammar and punctuation speak.
You’re right. You don’t know.
His pants are baggy like a man who never buys pants. In the background, to the right of his head, footage from the 1936 Olympic diving competition plays in black and white on a TV.
I get up and move to the window seat.