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It’s summer and the heat is hovering at just above too warm for his shirt, so he shucks it off and lays back on the grass, the white cotton bunched up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. His eyes are closed and he’s just soaking it all in, letting the day melt into him like the slight oily sheen of the suntan lotion he put on to keep his mother off his back.
The hood of the beat up car beneath him is hot against his skin, but cool enough from laying on it most of the afternoon that it doesn’t hurt, just infuses him like he’s some sort of conduit for the heat. The car’s not running, but the key’s turned in the ignition so that his stereo is beating back the sound of birds and the distant beach noises with the heavy guitar and the raspy growl that are his sounds of summer.
He turns his head, smiling as Kevin slides onto the hood of the car next to him, shoving him over slightly. He can’t help but hiss at the heat on his skin, but it fades fast enough as Kevin leans back, hands behind his head against the windshield as he stares up at the sky. John watches him for a moment, trying not to smile as the saxophone kicks in, Clarence buoying up Bruce’s voice until that last note coalesces and it all comes tumbling down.
“Eighth grade poetry,” Kevin reminds him with a smile.
“Shut up. You know you like it.”
“Nah.” Kevin shakes his head and looks back up at the sky or closes his eyes and just lets the day settle over them. “But you do. Guess that’s good enough.”